


Apollo Unraveled

by Rosefinch_Kinneret12 (ButtercupEsther08)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (Pre-) Canon Era, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst and Drama and Fluff, Brick based, Brotherly Love, Canon Divergence AU - Author’s Headcanon, Canon Divergence and Elaboration, Caretaking, Character Exploration of Multiple Characters, Character backstory & development, Chief & Center & Guide feelings, Childhood Memories, Coming of Age Elements, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enjolras Has Feelings, Family Issues, Family and Family of Choice Dynamics, Flashbacks, French & Occitan Cuisines, Friendship, Gen, Gratuitous Purple Prose and Poetic Waxing, Guest starring a dog named Robespierre & cats named Marat & Newton & Vivaldi, Headcanon and Series Introduction, Health and Medical Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection & Reflection, Mental Health Issues, Multi, My First Work in This Fandom, Platonic Soulmates, Provence & The Pyrenees, Romantic medicine, Romanticism, Sickfic, Symbolism, True Companions, world-building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-18 12:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 45,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButtercupEsther08/pseuds/Rosefinch_Kinneret12
Summary: A violently unpleasant, explicit and ill-timed chance meeting at a rally between Enjolras and his father, up north on a business trip, is partially overheard by Grantaire and Bossuet, its bloody aftermath and then equally grim indicators of his past and present struggles are witnessed by the other Amis, leaving the them greatly concerned for their seemingly impalpable Chief yet also intrigued outright, while their Chief is left deeply troubled - mortified, melancholic and unsettled.  The Amis decide to be tenacious in their enquiries, dedicated not only to cut the knot of the enigma but to support and comfort their friend. The Republic, of course, did not give birth to Enjolras, not in the traditional sense, naturally everyone has had a family before the one they chose, stoic Apollo incarnate is no exception. A tiny peek at the inner workings of, blood relatives, losses and experiences that birthed and chisled the marble lover of liberty. Or - In which the Amis partially decipher their riddle of a Chief - even against his will, yet for his own good, Combeferre and Courfeyrac take care of an ill Enjolras -  and said Chief learns some very valuable lessons on family, friendship, his human condition and trust.





	1. A Hundred School Masters

**Author's Note:**

> “What makes a hero? Courage, strength, morality, withstanding adversity? Are these the traits that truly show and create a hero? Is the light truly the source of darkness or vice versa? Is the soul a source of hope or despair? Who are these so called heroes and where do they come from? Are their origins in obscurity or in plain sight?” ― Fyodor Dostoyevsky
> 
> “Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald
> 
> “Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story.” ― Leo Tolstoy
> 
> ~*~
> 
> Hallo there, darling esteemed reader! Firstly, let me thank you most sincerely for even clicking on this humble fic. This fic is the fill for my own Spin Hugo Spin! Prompt “Enjolras vs. Enjolras’s Father” Round 8 Page 49, since deleted. 
> 
> Secondly, I would like to tenderly implore those sweet readers to which it pertains to heed the trigger warnings below – there will be plenty of fluff, yes, but no fluff in the world is worth feeling miserable and triggered getting to it. Please skip it, be well, rock on and spoil yourself instead. Ever seen a Japanese pygmy flying squirrel or the amazing quokka? Or that stabby gangsta crab? No? There are videos on the Youtubes for just such a situation! This fic is actually a tentative step towards getting used to having any sort of audience on my creative outings instead of ghost writing or freelance. 
> 
> The fic is UNBETA’ED, all mistakes and inaccuracies are mine. 
> 
> Constructive criticism, reviews/feedback and comments are more than welcome, cherished and taken into account! If you liked something about it, want to make my day and encourage me to stick with it, please do think about leaving kudos!
> 
> Now, who wants some Les Mis adventures? 
> 
> Thank you again and without further ado – Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Have a wonderful day, dear reader,
> 
> Rosefinch

** Dates of birth in this Headcanon (Youngest to Eldest) **

Jean “ **Jehan** ” Paul-Céleste Florentin Godefroy Prouvaire – born 29th of April 1808 (Aged 19, turning 20)

 Frédéric-Ferdinand Baudouin Hilaire Aurélien  Xavier “ **Aurèle** ” (de) Courfeyrac – born 10th of June 1807 (Aged 20, turning 21)

 **Michel** -Alexandre-Anatole Ehud Moïse Léonard Nahum Jean-Marie-Immaculée François Daniel Heliodoro Ignace Roland de Baoumirane Enjolras – born 16th of August 1807 (Aged 20, turning 21)

 **Léopold** Feuilly – exact date of birth unknown, here assumed as approximately 1806 - Celebrates on Bastille Day which is July 14 th (Aged 21, turning 22)

 **Gilbert** Odilon Lesgle (Lesgles, Lègle, Laigle, Laisgles, L'Aigle) aka **Bossuet** – born 5th of September 1805 (Aged 22, turning 23)

 **Nicolas** Christian-Hugues Panteleímon Joly – born 2 nd of May 1805 (Aged 22, turning 23)

Henri- Edmond Justus **Clément** Philibert Combeferre – born 27 th of March 1805 (Aged 23)

Achille **Isaïe** Nevrakis Grantaire – born 8 th of February 1804 (Aged 24)

Georges **Tristan** Rainier Hébert Bahorel – born 30 th of October 1804 (Aged 24, turning 25)

{+}

 **_Triggers warnings_ ** _: ANGST AND PAIN AHEAD!, Suicide (mentioned, discussed), Attempted suicide (mentioned, depicted, alluded to and discussed), Aftermath and emotional consequences of Suicide on family members (discussed, depicted), Past child abuse (major, discussed, depicted in one instance, aftermath described; physical, emotional, psychological), Past Child Neglect (mentioned), Past Abuse, Major Depressive Disorder/Depression (mentioned, discussed  plus alluded to in Grantaire), Possible Bipolar Disorder in OC (vaguely hinted at), Extended suicide/child murder (mentioned, alluded to), Catatonia (mentioned), Self-harm (major; depicted, mentioned and discussed), Grief & Mourning & Loss (major; mentioned, discussed), Domestic Abuse (briefly mentioned), Alcohol Abuse/ Alcoholism (Grantaire and very briefly hinted at in an OMC), Toxic/Disordered family relationships and disordered bonds (discussed), Anxiety disorders (major, including panic attacks), Generalized anxiety disorder, Social Anxiety Disorder (Major), __Mental Illnesses and Mental Health Issues (major), Era appropriate derogatory language & obsolete views & attitude concerning mental illness & Neurological Disorders and Suicide (not by the Amis directly, mentioned and discussed), Anorexia Nervosa (major), Eating disorders, Eating Disorder Recovery, Physical exhaustion and Illness caused by aforementioned  (mentioned, talked about), Epilepsy (one Grand Mal seizure depicted, mentions of past others), Asthma, Migraines & Headaches, Disordered sense of self & self-image & self-worth & self-esteem, Slightly disordered body image, Trust Issues (major), Insecurity & Low self-esteem, Mentions of Difficult Pregnancy & Birth (not graphic), Instances of Childhood mortality & Miscarriage (mentioned), Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (major), Control and power issues (related to aforementioned and Past Child Abuse), Self-punishment & Flagellant behavior, Self-neglect and -abuse (mentioned, discussed), Awful communication skills, Vomiting (slightly graphic detail; occasional self-induced vomiting mentioned as symptom of an eating disorder), Fainting, Nausea (described rather detailed), Fever, Nightmares and Poor Sleep Hygiene, Insomnia (very minor, briefly mentioned), Sexual Assault/Spousal Rape in Marriage on OFC by OMC (vaguely mentioned, alluded to, very minor and brief), Dismal self-care abilities, Emotional Constipation, Misogyny and Era Appropriate Chauvinism (Not by the Amis), Class issues and Classism (surprisingly somewhat minor), Era Appropriate Gender Role Stereotypes, Childhood Illnesses, Major Guilt Complexes and Issues, Dysfunctional Families and Familial Bonds, Serious and Chronic Illnesses, Dealing with Taking Care of and Living with a(n; chronically) Ill Loved One, Uncomfortable and Unhealthy Religiosity in OCs, Vague Religious Zealotry and Bigotry and Intolerance (very minor), Mention of and Discussion on Illegitimacy and Birth out of Wedlock, Featuring Era appropriate Derogatory Language and Views concerning Class & Race (very minor, worldbuilding) & Gender Roles & Chronic Illness & Disability, Child Rearing and Illegitimacy, Ableism/Internalized Ableism (Mentioned, somewhat discussed), Mentions of Eugenics and Phrenology, Brief Physical Violence,Blood (From Self-harm and Brief Violence) -  PLEASE HEED WARNING TAGS! _

 {+}

 

 

**Chapter One**

**A Hundred School Masters**

_“The words that a father speaks to his children in the privacy of home are not heard by the world, but, as in whispering-galleries, they are clearly heard at the end and by posterity.” - Jean Paul Richter_

_“Yet there be certain times in a young man’s life, when, through great sorrow or sin, all the boy in him is burnt and seared away so that he passes at one step to the more sorrowful state of manhood” ― Rudyard Kipling_

_“Familiarity breeds contempt - and children.” - Mark Twain_

_“Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being.” - Albert Camus_

_“Every moment and every event of every man's life on earth plants something in his soul.” - Thomas Merton_

_“Everywhere the human soul stands between a hemisphere of light and another of darkness; on the confines of the two everlasting empires, necessity and free will.” - Thomas Carlyle_

 

 

_ Rue de Jeanne d’Arc, Paris, Sunday, 13th of April 1828 _

The crowd - men, women and children – workers of the textile industry and their families, which had gathered underneath the embracing tranquility of the spring morning sky stood in various states of transfixture, spellbound by the ardorous rhetoric of one young gentleman. In their eyes danced the notions which their orator’s forceful hymnal voice painted upon the awaiting canvas of the horizon – the charitable blue, peeking out between the cirrus clouds, so similar yet so different from his own eyes alight in this present moment with fervid visions. With his righteous fury this young man conjured paintings in motion upon their yearning hearts and thirsting minds, whose colors were composed of his words of hope, of transformation, of justice and humanity, worlds of a dawn of merciful, forgotten prosperity which had effortlessly ensnared them.

That is of course for the sole purpose of - a seedling of knowledge planted, untamed reverie schooled, desire nurtured and ideas propagated, their tentative fires kindled into a blaze -, as certain ornithologists would upon capture, to release them, as it had been creed as much as freedom he desired in their sentiment. As was his nature, this youth of revolution’s dress was perfectly, meticulously neat and soigné, paradoxically somber, yes priestly, queer in a man of such a young age, appearing a mere adolescent to the eye, his dress seeming to the observer often, as it did at this moment, as if entangled in a perpetual state of mourning: black trousers (in lieu of breeches), a black coat buttoned closed thusly obscuring any idea as to the color or pattern of his waistcoat (it was a solid, rich carmine), his light spring overcoat of black and dark graphite grey wool he had doffed less in keeping with the earlier retreat of dawn’s cirrocumulus clouds and the subsequent warming of the day, but more for its constrictions of his gesticulations, stark white shirt with its collar well starched, a cravat of cream color and black jodhpur boots polished to perfection, it boldly declared testament to his candid nature. He wore no embellishments, no jewelry, had even cast off his tophat, thusly he was clad only in his dogmatic convictions, his radical intellect, the flourish of his speech - albeit indeed there was one symbol pinned onto his lapel, not a flower, but a tricolor cockade, a proclamation, an ovation, a salutation, the lone one needed, the only one of worth to him.

Were such a state of attire would have stung on others as unnatural, it suited the fiercely intense, austere aura of this young man by the name of Michel Enjolras in a striking manner – the cutting contrast of this ceremonially puritanical vestment and this angelically handsome young man’s fairest complexion, the halo of stunning blonde tresses and the magnetic, restless vibrancy and vigilance yet recondite, guarded introversion of the searing gaze of his ocean eyes, aglow with what would impress the listener as a summer storm’s lightning bolts as he discoursed, could have had him confused with a heavenly seraph by Romantic minded individuals as much as by persons of any religious conviction. There was one man however, who was neither of the above, in company of a companion of similar class standing, who had found himself perchance and accident upon this formidable scene on this unassumingly benign, cool Sunday morning.

Perplexed and vexed they had exited, mere moments ago, their Berline to examine the uproar, the odd gathering which had so unexpectedly obstructed their progress. While his companion inflicted irate reprovals upon their coachman, in a harried voice full of indignation and irritation, this man, a middle-aged bourgeois Provencal gentleman of vast wealth and influence, was left certainly not untouched but affected dissidently from the rest of the avid audience not in a state of astir, appetent, whetted idealistic rapture but outraged ire, which threatened apace to escalate into a full blown wrath with every, to his ear, traitorous, nonsensical utterance so gleefully promulgated by this relentless articulator before him – For the young man on the rostrum, ascetically Jacobin as he was in disposition, happened to be his son.

A fact which strangers, apart from indeterminably obscure inklings of supposed similitude fostered by blood kinship – their brisk, militaristic tread and distinct way of frowning, for example - could easily overlook gullibly at first, even second or third glance. Indeed, they bore so little resemblance to each other in their character, ideals or appearance that one could think Michel Enjolras an adopted heir or ward of sorts in lieu of knowledge to the contrary, that is, if one did neither observe their mannerisms closely enough in contrast, nor became aware of the uncanny semblance young Enjolras bore to the members of his maternal family, specifically his late mother and her brothers.

Whereas Monsieur Ladislas Charles-Aldéric Enjolras, the bespoke Midi gentleman, was not exceptionally handsome, he was good-looking in the most conservative manner, the years of bitterness having blurred what quite possibly once had been a man quite dapper and attractive, who this must be conceded, could, if only he wished, still appear significantly younger than his age of forty-nine, for he was appealingly cut, his hair was full and of its original color, his stature healthily muscular and his face free of wrinkles and blemishes – Yes he could, but alas, if it weren’t for his severe Prussian bleakness of bearing, a temper prone to irascibility, conceit, spite, combativeness and cruelty, as well as a harshness of conduct, that is. In short, the man had the aura of a Roman emperor. He was as tall as his son, both standing at circa 180 cm, yet noticeably more squarely built, albeit both were slender, the younger was all but svelte and delicate, deceptively dainty thusly appearing smaller in comparison, which was emphasized by an acute grace of movement, which the elder lacked, for his mien was entirely a staccato of intimidation, every gesture concise and aggressive, poise belligerently stalwart.

Whereas the elder was sharply Roman in his features, with an angular face and straight aquiline nose, his complexion, while still relatively pale, was more Mediterranean olive in tone of skin, his son Michel was finely chiseled in Hellenistic breeding (which was unusual considering his Occitan Provencal pedigree on both branches of ancestry) and, as aforementioned, pallidly fair in complexion. Though the elder’s dark burnt umber hair was curly as his son’s in texture, it was barbered short and combed back dourly, while the younger’s lush honey-golden locks were in length - recently cut shorter from shoulder length - reaching just past his chin, in habit worn open but occasionally tied back with black ribbon, as they were to-day, a style fairly unfashionable but practical which is what mattered most to the young man.

The eyes of father and son deserve a moment of attention, for they too where differing greatly from each other, where the elder had dark cassiterite brown eyes which appeared to hold a permanently grim, stringent, unmerciful expression, the younger’s irids were of a bright, lightsome blue so dynamic it seemed to change its hue by incidence of light and mood, appearing in its basic form azure as the summer sky or the ocean before the Côtes of south and southwest France, lightening up to a bleu celeste when happy, clouding to the deep cobalt of stormy seas upon angered or saddened and blanching to a powdery blue close to periwinkle in moments of pallor or particular concentration, their expression one of conviction so intense a man might be urged to genuflect in faith, hope and reform if pierced by one singular look, yet their beneficence was one of grand, unyielding eminence, at times a minatory mixture, which might frighten away, unfortunately misunderstood, moreso than those of the elder.

Their sense of dress, while similar in its rigor and penchant for subdued colors, which are black and dark blues, secerned itself not only by the younger one’s use of accentuating symbolic colors such as shades of bold red and patterns of note but especially and most noticeably by the elder’s blatantly excessive displays of wealth, such as jewelry, in an, not at all uncommon, embodiment of his standing. Whereas the son shared flights of eloquence, sudden, sentimental outbursts of soul and devotional love, the elder was succinct, patronizing and lacked any passion, imagination or mirth in speech or conduct.

Where the younger Enjolras - ascetic, savage and pontifical – was rectified, complemented, mitigated, anchored and bond to philanthropy and tenderness by his colleagues, his father stood alone, unchallenged. Whereas young Enjolras burned with pity, compassion and righteousness, loved utterly, fiercely all humanity in their democratic state, the people of France, his principles and convictions, and his friends, even opened himself cautiously to the beauty of everyday life and nature when encouraged, the elder groomed his attachments but out of selfish motive and mere calculation. Where the younger felt all his emotions with untamed intensity, the elder was numbed and lacked them. Where Enjolras was severe in his enjoyments, his absolute chastity a holy flame, his father was degrading and occasionally pompously extravagant when it suited his intentions.

Where young Enjolras was an illustrious soaring bird, his father was a regular opportune scavenger. Where even in his guardedly restrained nature the younger hailed fraternity, admired love, creativity and joy in its purest forms, was deeply sensitive and pensive, toward and curious in matters foreign to him and utterly steadfast in his convictions, a being of integrity and faith, in possession of a well veiled dry sense of humor reserved for his close circle of trusted friends only, his father was solely diseased by the emptiness of comfortable tyranny, greed and arrogance, all words from his tongue a sneer -  deception, manipulation and cruelty his tools, people his pawns.

Whereas Michel Enjolras was fraught with duty, a pitiless sense of self-governance, thoughtfulness, gratitude, consideration, sangfroid, a sublime kindness and a tentative joie de vivre he did not deign himself often enough, his father’s mind was pitiless in its harshness, a construct of steel. On might argue that M. Ladislas Charles-Aldéric Enjolras was but a product of his own past, the pestilentially parasitic disposition of his class and this perverse runaway society, yet he became guilty in his refusal to deliver himself to something greater, more humane, to become exalted as a servant to his country and people, to humanity in general, instead of sitting enthroned as a master of his wealth and station.

How desolate it was, that to the untrained eye, they might appear alike in exterior nature, yet to the attentive seeker their vastly different true cores – one heroic, a token of the future of humanity, the other far more abased than any street beggar or criminal, for it was the relic of the ancient misanthropic despotism of darkness past - manifested themselves as though they were butterflies hatching. That certain people would rather associate with the elder than the younger, fearing to be consumed by the seraph’s fiery intensity of righteousness, dreading to face the ruins of their once promising nation – Alas! - to equate Michel Enjolras with Ladislas Charles-Aldéric Enjolras would be an utmost infamy. The son, barely grown out of adolescence and still a youth, had already surpassed his father by his laureated character and magnanimous endeavors tenfold.

Charles Enjolras regarded scornfully a familiar face, spotted immediately upon arrival: standing perkily - wearing a ghastly debonair eggshell colored pink rose-patterned waistcoat, a pastel carnation cravat, a velvety hunter green coat, unbuttoned, pinned at the lapel his cockade and at his right boutonnière a posy of a light pink rose and apple blossoms, beige breeches and brown leather boots - at his son’s left side, emerald green eyes radiant with ardor, smiling gaily, full fashionably styled chestnut curls sheening in the sunlight akin to polished mahogany, the second of young Enjolras' two closest friends, a boy by the name of Aurèle de Courfeyrac, (amongst six sisters and an elder brother the second youngest child of M. Frédéric-Ferdinand de Courfeyrac, a minor vicomte of Aix-de-Provence, and his wife Mme. Marie-Madeleine de Razès de Courfeyrac, a marquis’ daughter). This held no surprise to the man, as the dashing, lissome, exuberant, chronically cheerful ne’er- do-well dandy, who thought himself most witty, had been thick as thieves with his son ever since they had made each other's acquaintance at the tender age of eight.

His immense disdain did not restrict itself solely to the boy but to his entire family for they were cordially warm-hearted, talkative, openly, inappropriately affectionate with each other as much as others including their staff akin, a conduct more behooven to common peasants, and generously charitable, not to mentioned of some Republican sentiment. If the de Courfeyrac brat was present, Charles was distinctly positive, even against his own esperance, that the other of his son’s close boyhood confidants must also be in attendance. Searching for this particular young man’s bespectacled likeness, Charles allowed his glance to rover over the posse and square, indeed his hunch was, unsurprisingly, a correct one. He did spot this particular young man much to his horrified consternation.

Clément Combeferre, golden rimmed spectacles slid forward to the bridge of his nose, aniseed brown eyes, resembling in color gingerbread, delighted, brow creased in focus, his straight, short walnut brown hair neatly combed, clad in staid but elegant coat and trousers of cinereous and a cold grey fil-à-fil fabric - a Grisaille; a solid carob brown waistcoat, white shirt and ivory beige cravat, thoroughly encompassed in his task, seated on a repurposed wooden café stool, next to another, similarly occupied, cockade wearing compatriot (- a pretty boy of his son’s age with blithe hazel eyes and coquettishly en vogue, wavy tenné brown hair greatly resembling milk caramel, below chin in length, dressed in an ecru waistcoat which was versicoloredly paisley pattered, worn over a white shirt, olive cravat, trousers and coat of dark russet –) on the verge of the plaza at what appeared to be an improvised clinic of sorts. Both were industrious in their work of inoculating a group of peasant children whilst in lively discussion with some of their female relations.

For young Combeferre – thirdborn son of five children, four sons and a daughter, of renowned physician, medical journalist and researcher of medicine Professor Docteur Henri-Bénédict Combeferre and his wife Docteur Édith  Montségur Combeferre, a celebrated research author of biology and chemistry in her own right as well as close friend of his deceased wife’s - had always impressed him to be of prudently rational, sober-minded, sage character.

Now, confronted with the irrefutable evidence that it had been his mad son leading such a fine young man astray all along, he felt a deep corrosive shame intersecting with his wrath. Whipping his gaze back to behold his son Michel once more  – whose speech had reached its apex interim - in a boiling mixture of derisive repulsion and seething contempt, his body gone rigid at the sight, his knuckles clasping the gold ornated ivory knob of his walking cane in a crushing paroxysm, the mockingly chagrined words of his companion he barely registered as exclaimed aloud, neither did his sober implorations to reenter their mode of transportation and find another way, his sole focus locked upon his offending spawn.

Hitherto, Charles had sought to foolishly placate himself on self-deception that the boy’s antics had appeared more adolescent folly, instead of the poisonous fruits of contagion borne of his maternal family’s blood’s ascendancy in the boy’s veins, the undeniable madness of revolutionary zealotry and rabble rousing utopic efforts confronting him this instant had with one single brutal blow, - that of a guillotine, he mused snidely,-  dispersed any caprice of thought that his son was still within reason or redemption, or more precisely that there ever had been any possibility for either since this accursed spawn took his first breath.

Atop the rostrum, yet unaware and untroubled Michel Enjolras had put modest finis to his soliloquy amidst a general consensus of plaudit, whooping cheers and cries of delighted patriotic praise, he seized sagely this fleeting moment to good use, peering keenly, with the utmost incisive vehemence into the faces of the people, indeed studying, memorizing, granting importance to every last soul he could, it was as if he stared acutely at their hopes, dreams, grievances, yet for the briefest blink of his eye he seemed to behold in great awe and anticipation prophetically their future state, nay that of his nation, of his revered people instead.

Charles did not see it and never would, to him the look was that of a hallucinatory maniac, nothing more. Then, with just a sigh of imperceptible, faintly balmy spring breeze, the enchanting fancy of imagination was gone, nevertheless his eyes continued gleaming with the gentle smile his stoic mimic, so swiftly reverted to its natural manifestation of stern gravitas was not able or willing to flippantly relinquish, did not freely expose to the stranger’s inquiry yet was still observable to those well initiated to this peculiar young man’s introverted disposition.

The young Enjolras most elegantly turned upon the heel to face his compatriots, utter concord, celebration and extolment clear in their expressions. The fellow to his right, who had appeared throughout the speech to guard the orator as all but a sentinel, continually eyeing the crowd warily alert, searching for troublemakers and dissent of  the threatening kind - seeming approximately three or four years older than both the coltish dandy and Enjolras, was ruggedly handsome, brawny in built like an ancient oak, broad shouldered and square jawed, with short dark hair which had the bay of  ground cloves and was haphazardly combed with strains cascading unto his forehead, dapper sideburns, otherwise clean shaven, taller even than young Enjolras, clearly shared an outrageous sense of dress with the de Courfeyrac brat, (his wisteria and mauve waistcoat all but shimmered like the plumage of some exotic hummingbird and had pearl colored perpendicular partition along the front showing a colorful Japanese kimono spring pattern of blossoms on branches, ponds and birds, his plum cravat extravagantly tied, a white shirt, a coat of such a dark brown as molasses it could be mistaken for black, and isabella colored breeches) - had taken notice of him (indeed long before he had of him), Charles’s eyes locked upon the watchdog’s brown ones which resembled the gemstone of tiger’s eye, taken aback by the malicious protectiveness and bold loyalty staring him down in unconcealed warning, he felt as if this hewn young man would be capable of and willing to break the neck of anyone who dared an attempt to harm even a solitary hair on his son’s head in an instant.

What followed next, added to this given pause even with a mind so occupied with unadulterated rage and shame such as M. Charles Enjolras’: as a true, radiant smile did battle its way upon his son’s lips, one so unsettling, not in its primal qualities, for it was a beautific display of confidently contended joy, surely, but for the circumstance of its utterly foreign concept in concern to his son’s usual taciturnly reserved, self-possessed demeanor (Michel Enjorlas was indeed the sort of fellow who rarely smiled and did so more often than not merely with his eyes), thusly it garnered an almost ominous, otherworldly, entirely heralding quality, it was almost saintly, riveting and deterrent, beckoning and repelling, a shade of his late wife’s, yet with all the ferociousness of a general before his troops, striking Charles to the core in fearful confusion, as he, a heathen in these matters, had witnessed a concept unfamiliar to a man of his acrimonious breeding and character: a smile intimately designated for only one’s soul’s most kindred spirits, in itself adoring, pure and deeply felt within one’s being.

Alas, even such glory of sentiment, of love and loyalty cannot besoothe, nay maybe even chasten all men, as there are such who know no deference, no awe to the poetry of the anima, who do not care for the language of the soul, do not even concede it any weight of significance. Whatever absurd spirit of mystification had caused Charles to momentarily stagnate, it had, barely noted, a nectarious wisp of murmured psalm, as a floriferous, coastal zephyr of summer, already vanished as before his son’s seemingly prophetic vision. Jolting out of his cogitation back into his observation, he noted that in the course of their short congenial exchange, the  stocky fellow had clapped a brotherly hand on his son’s shoulder with jovial leisure, grinning, chest puffed in proud zeal and aplomb, while the dandy, - much to Charles’s dismay - with the casual implicitness of an obvious profound bond, had  firstly placed a peck on his son’s cheek, then embraced him in a strange parietal hug whispering something into his comrade’s ear. A hug which his son not only allowed with wry indulgence but was reciprocating, if reservedly, even as a faint blush rose to his cheeks at the dandy’s effortless display of physical affection in such a public sphere and at whatever words had been whispered.

A few more words were swapped between the young men, before the dandy took on the role of discursor.

A sizable chunk of the crowd remained to discuss the topics of Enjolras’s speech and pose questions on the contents while the rest had scattered not afar into either smaller groups of discussion or shifted their attention back unto the other comrades of his son’s lot, easily identifiable by their cockades.

The two other young men Charles noticed, their unique idiosyncrasies were standing out distinctly: the first, a ginger haired, freckled laborer boy close to the age of, if not one or two years older than his son, wearing a buckskin vest over an ecru linen shirt, suspenders of his coarse trousers visible, a red neckerchief and the appropriate cap to his standing, propped up a bit, who had listened most intently to his son’s speech, a glad, dovish little smile playing upon his lips, now being addressed by two fellow workers; and the second, a queer looking, very boyish appearing young man indeed, who was petite but sinewy, handsome, his melodious voice timidly soft, sweet and yet intrepidly manly in tenure, fair of complexion and finely featured in what appeared to Charles a declaration to solid upper-class maybe even noble or higher bourgeois lineage, with languorous, gentle-natured, pensive teal or turquoise greenish-blue eyes, long fair lashes, his past shoulder length sandy flaxen hair was braided with ribbon,  forsythia, cherry blossoms, a primrose and hyacinth flowers and he was clad in an outlandish color combination, which was buff colored trousers, a light blue shirt underneath his waistcoat, well, his doublet which was lion colored cloth and sepia brown leather, had an  intricate interlace knot pattern of bronze and golden thread, as well having Millefleur patterned patches on the very flanks of the garment, a badly tied big bowed amaranth cravat under a chintz patterned neckerchief worn with a scarf pin in the shape of a kingfisher bird, a deer colored coat, unbuttoned, which held in his right boutonnière a floral arrangement of a daffodil, crocus, lily of the valley and scilla flowers.

This queer young man was in deep congenial conversation with a group of women and girls, standing but a couple of feet away from the bustling improvised clinic, presently gifting, with a flourished bow and what appeared to be mellifluous words, one of his flowers – the primrose - to a beaming young girl. It was in this moment, upon the first graceful step towards descending the stairs, that Michel Enjolras’s gaze found and became entangled in that of his father’s, indeed it was this one last quick scrutiny of the confluence by force of vigilant habit that alerted father and son to the other’s dreaded presence.

The young Enjolras proceeded in his descent of the stairs unremittingly, accompanied by the burly fellow, as though he had not seen, not turning to affirm his father’s pursuit, veering around to enter the café situated behind the improvised stage, but instead coming to a stop being addressed by the burly fellow, both marshalling by the door. The stocky young man and his son talked insistently to each other, the former throwing a pointedly murderous glare over his shoulder at Charles, his son shook his head, asserting certitude, allaying his colleague’s concerns enough for the other to reluctantly turn away and stalk towards the redheaded working boy and his collocutors.

Embitterment and haughty complacency fueled Charles forward single mindedly  – his companion and earlier pursuits long since discarded - as he began to make his way towards the source of his foul temper, who stood stationary, unnervingly, insultingly forbearing, posture prim, on the threshold of the café’s ajar door. Never once did his son’s inherited cold lunatic mother’s eyes leave Charles as he maneuvered briskly through the riffraff and revolutionary vermin, and neither did those of the watchdog on his back cease to bore their holes.

 

~*~

On the other side of the plaza Combeferre, who had glanced up innocently to check upon his young friend, a brotherly almost maternal instinct, found his heart sink at the sight of Enjolras’s father traversing the square, knowing deep in his bones that this situation could not possible come to a good end, alarmed, he was torn between his unsound desire to protect Enjolras, whom he considered his younger brother, and duteosness. By his feet Robespierre, their dog, a Great Pyrenees, sat sentry, bolting upright, he whined and growled lowly, his faithful eyes following his master. ‘Pierre’s massive body tensed, the threnodic quality of his vocalization replaced with the need to protect. «Down.» commanded the medical student sternly, ‘Pierre did not obey immediately, seeming as torn as Combeferre. «Down» ordered he again more kindly and sighed, looking at those deep dark pools of affection apologetically, ruffling its thick white fur «Easy, easy, that’s a good boy. Down, now. » ‘Pierre huffed and whined as he obeyed the order, yet remained restless.

Feeling a knot of foreboding form in his stomach and his heart constrict further, petting the dog absentmindedly, he attempted to dispel his puerile yet primordial lividity and worry, yet managed not. He had been witness to their altercations and aftermaths before, their dolorous ends were too familiar to him to entertain any hope in this regard. He wished to spring up, gather Enjolras in his arms and shield him but knew he could and should not indulge in such foolishness.

Combeferre, an acidulous taste upon his tongue, stayed put and did his onus. Oh how he abhorred to be restricted to tend to his friend’s wounds in the wake of the bluster instead of being able to shelter him in the first place as he deserved. Enjolras was a child no more, he was an adult, no matter how impossible to accept this concept seemed to his fraternal mind. Yet despite no consanguineous relation between them, Combeferre still was the elder brother and would always be, his untamed protective instinct, an inescapable august grace of nature not to be trifled with, and such that not even his splendid intellect would ever compare to a drive so completely elemental.

To his heart Enjolras was still the same sweet, shy, hurt little boy – not a day older than six years of age to his eye - who held his hand wherever they ventured, who snuck in his bed late at night seeking comfort (a habit he still occasionally indulged in), who spent hours finding a specific beetle or special kind of stone just to make him smile, who took joy in giving it to others but never asked anything for himself, loved being read to and every critter he came across, to which he talked as if they were human, who still idolized him with an abandon of devotion and admiration that rendered him speechless, habitually referring to him as the single smartest person in the world to anyone you would listen.

Furthermore he was not only his friend and brother but his physician. He should have intervened yesterday. They could not find themselves in a worse place and time for such an effort yet his fraternal mind would not rest its vociferating just like ‘Pierre, who was pawing at the ground, grumbling, staring at the café entrance, it remained restless. 

« What’s the matter?» inquired Joly of him, a curious concern in his eyes, having registered the change of mood forthwith.

«Never mind, my friend. It’s nothing of import.» he took care to let his voice sound with its usual even cadence.

« Are you certain, Combeferre?» Joly studied him with care, head cocked to the side quizzically «You seem quite troubled by that bagatelle»

Combeferre sighed again, bethinking himself. «Just an unpleasant thought, one has such freaks, I suppose. Don’t trouble yourself or fret, it’s hardly of germane to this present moment »

Joly regarded him suspiciously for a bit longer but resumed his task, throwing back his wavy hair with an abrupt, coy shake of his head, «Well» he stated, worrying his lip «If you say so, dear fellow», followed more mischievously by «Have care you do not turn into a poet like our darling Prouvaire, we all can handle but one daydreaming, hashish smoking melancholic» the bespoke poet threw Joly a pseudo affronted glare that had no bite to show for itself but then smiled self-consciously, bemusedly, and blushed deeply. Joly chuckled to himself «Come now, you mustn’t be piqued, little Jehan, we all love our on-site Romantic, you know that – it is but odd to see our own philosopher, a man of prudence, dedicated to rationality and temperance, emulate you!» said Romantic tried valiantly not to giggle at that, he bowed his head to hide his coruscant eyes.

«Well, if dear Combeferre or any good fellow of our group found Romanticism, I should be most overjoyed and supportive.» he called pleased, «Of course, you would, dearest, and then all hell would break loose – Combeferre would spent his time in the arms of the poppy, engrossed in writing disjointed sonnets in Ode of the common moth and we would all be terribly lost, directionless and come to great ruin soon enough» snorted Joly. «You mustn’t insult the moth, Joly, it would be most deserving of an Ode, I think - death and birth, metamorphosis, night and dreams, finding the light, the Otherworld, disguises of the soul, intuition…(O I hope I do not forget till later! Where have I left my notebook?)…» Joly interrupted him with a gay little laugh that faded into a smirk, and Jehan was left to sulk for no more than a couple of trices. «You are unfairly dismissive of poetry, dear Joly, as always. All is poetry, medicine too. » declared Jehan smiling amicably in spite of his words.

«O darling Jehan, you must remind me to kiss you later, how can anyone be as sweet?» the young poet’s persistent blush remained high, his eyes shone shyly at the affectionate praise. «Tell us about the poetry of liver cirrhosis or the lyricism of rabies, pray do. » Joly’s words were half a tease, half fond appreciation, yet Jehan seemed as though he had to remind himself of his adulthood and present surroundings, as he seemed all but tempted to display a rude hand gesture more reminiscent of Bahorel or Grantaire, or stick out his tongue at Joly, yet bridling himself to merely shake his head in indulgent exasperation.  «The liver» the poet replied earnestly, smiling bonhomously, «is a very symbolic organ, Docteur», Joly chuckled a bit but nodded thoughtfully. «It is indeed.» said Joly honest and conciliatory, then a bit more wickedly again

«See? Oh we would be lost without our poet too, not only without our philosopher» Jehan deigned to ignore Joly at this point, in account of his docile nature. «O mon bien-aimé tourtereau, mon petit bijou, do remember who procured you Ambroise – Was that not I? If that is not a token of my appreciation and friendship, I know not! » Ambroise, the most recent addition to Jehan’s collection of skulls was indeed a gift of Joly, who could not restrain himself from grinning smugly.

Jehan sighed and groused but still with twinkling eyes replied «Indeed I am well aware, but be told, dear Joly, at least Ambroise is restful, sympathetic company» Upon studying Combeferre’s expression, Jean ‘Jehan’ Prouvaire, the poet, grew more somber, albeit he did not inquire, it seemed as though he had felt or read from only his frown, without the need for a single word, whatever matter was bothering the medical student, and had opted to prudently remain quiet for the time being,  to see what would transpire and be of assistance then. The three busied themselves again. Joly’s next patient, a girl no older than five years of age with rosy cheeks, eyed him anxiously fidgeting with the hem of her pinafore.

«Beg your pardon, Monsieur Docteur, she is a shy one and a bit dumb-witted…» the mother muttered defensively, yet when the girl still refused to come closer, her mother made to push her, annoyed, chastising her under her breath, but Joly stopped her by saying most charmingly «Madame, may I?» The mother – who had been one of the more skeptical ones present - expressed her consent, entirely astonished at the young man’s pleasant kindness and equanimity

«What’s your name, little one?» «Nadège» she cheeped startled. Ever the gentleman, Joly stood and bowed, kissing her one un-bandaged hand «It is an honor and a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Nadège» he reseated himself gracefully, smiling knowingly, invitingly at the young girl «Doctors can be scary creatures, no?» («Indeed » Jehan grumbled archly to himself, under his breath «And prone to lecturing, graveness and ennui too – and to teasing. One should be wary of them, I find. ») the little girl nodded mutely, huge brown eyes wide as they looked up at Joly «You must not fear doctors, little one» assured Jehan cheerfully, though the purport of his words was appropriately sober and earnest, she still hesitated, yet unshaken, both men smiled at her sympathetically, their calm, genial patience, unfortunately so rare, beckoned her curiosity and called placatively to her innocent soul. 

«But, you see, doctors have but one intention: to make you better and see you well. We swear a solemn oath to God to protect and care for humanity, for our patients, with all our knowledge and capabilities. » the little girl's eyes were now filled with the sort of unburdened genuine awe so seldom found outside of infants.  «Would it help if I were to tell you exactly what I intend to do as I examine you?»  

«Yes, Monsieur Docteur.»  she chirped nodding. With the spell of apprehension broken she came to him resolutely, trust having taken root, as she placed her bandaged left hand into his waiting ones, which were cupped as if to receive a precious gift, his touch full of care.

«I’ll be as careful as I can» he promised «And a doctor always aims to keep his promises. Yes, I am sure you are a most brave little lady, are you not? I have full confidence you are.»  he winked at her, «Of course she is!» exclaimed Jehan supportively, she giggled quietly as the young medical student took of the dressings and examined the burn wound they had covered. As promised he commented upon every step of the treatment and told her a funny little anecdote of the havoc his and Bossuet’s pet cats Hippocrates and Biot had caused a month ago. Censoring out the parts containing the cursing, of course. It was over so quick - with only so much of a wince by the little girl, who had barely registered most of the treatment - that one cannot help but  be impressed with the young medical student’s remarkable skill and dexterity.

«There you are, Mademoiselle Nadège.»  Joly exclaimed light heartedly. «A brave little lady indeed! Not half as bad as you thought it would be, now was it?» Joly praised cordially, his smile warm and tone gentle, not patronizing but frankly genuine, Jehan too congratulated her as the young girl shook her head in wonder, eyes beaming proudly. «No, Monsieur, it didn’t hurt at all! Doctors aren’t scary at all!» suddenly remembering her manners, she bobbed a curtsey and said formally «Thank you, Monsieur Docteur. » He tapped her on the nose with a quietly merry smile and answered contentedly «You are most welcome, Mademoiselle. Most welcome indeed. »

 

~*~

« Monsieur» the young Enjolras greeted in a voice supinely cool and curtly bland as soon as the man who called himself his father had entered into close earshot, bowing fulsomely punctiliously, a show of supreme condescension. Charles did not return or acknowledge this accost. Actually, neither father nor son voiced any discord, or spoke so much as another syllable, until they had entered the café or more precisely one of its siderooms. The Café Tisserin - which lay at this moment, quiet with relative inactivity, cool and bathed in an intricate pas de deux between the dust particles wafting about playfully in the light, reticently seeping in through the front door and windows, and its shadows, that almost tauntingly seemed to revise their ancient, tired sanguinary duel - was a fairly quaint establishment, well-kept, spacious and with decent coffee to boot. Despite lacking the homely aspect of trusted privacy and long acquaintance which had endeared the Café Musain and the Corinthe to the Amis ( - the latter despite the perilous jeopardies posed by Mme. Hucheloup’s attempts at cuisine -), it was certainly an inviting destination which was frequented by students of the L’École des Beaux-Arts and working folk of the textile professions alike. Had M. Charles Enjolras or his son cared to survey their surroundings, they would have, perhaps, registered the presence of two young men, whom the young Enjolras counted amongst his friends, in the far right hand corner of the room.

The one, a lad strangely bald, safe for a monkish coil of bistre hair resembling the color of tree bark, with an infectious smile and a vaguely Alsatian accent, was occupied with the seemingly impossible task of good humoredly attempting to cajole the other - a young man hidden away by a messy mop of inky, obsidian curls - away from his alcohol induced artistic frenzy. The black haired fellow, though, in his wrinkled white shirt and dark Tyrian purple waistcoat sans its coat, seemed far too inebriated to appreciate his friend’s well intentioned misgiving, proceeding instead in his incessant mutterings of disjointed allusions to Greek and Roman mythology, his daft charcoal stained fingers, all the while, kept sketching feverishly, his ramblings no doubt courtesy of his paramourous companions, which were indeed a bottle half empty of gin, a glass near empty of absinthe before him - which had been slovenly refilled maybe more than once, if the discoloration beneath it gave any indication - and an empty bottle of wine sitting cast aside after a duty done, precariously close to the edge of the stained table on his left.

Well, now as it happened of course, finding themselves so all engrossingly preoccupied, they did not notice.

Father and son, each still morosely, defiantly keeping their peace, entered the next best sideroom immediately to their sharp left  – musty and in a state of disarray that seemed as though it resided there by comity, currently storing two crates of supplies, a lonesome coat and a collection of umbrellas - their paces rapidly determined, the resonation of their footfalls creaking, singularly focused and neither bothering to fully shut its door in their wake, their barely bridled tempers adamantly demanding discagement, barring any superfluous obstacles to their rampage.

 

 ~*~

Their involuntary eavesdroppers, that must be explained, minutes before their entrance had become involved in their own curious sort of struggle «Come now, ‘Taire, » the bald fellow coaxed in well-meaning repetition, his tone cloyingly patient, entirely undeterred by the other’s repeated ejaculations of despondent obsession and disdain, «Take your pad and pencil outside, at least, so that they will come to see the sunshine and not wither and grow as crestfallen as their master thinks he has, come, my friend, have a heart if not on yourself than on them for they are innocent and, for that matter on myself, for neither I nor your utensils can bear your current state – you can draw anywhere, can’t you not?»

«Woe is all! Leave me be then, dear Bossuet! O friend of the friendless one, woe is you! Leave, o leave, I wish not to pain you! Fly away Eagle! But what ails me, ails me so…O the sun, the sun, it is the sun that pains me, sears my ugly flesh but gelidly, I am porphyric, dear Bossuet, can’t you see? Craven and porphyric! O sunlight must thou haunt me?! O darkness must thou consume the fool unpitied?!» replied the artist in lament, «It was decidedly unwise to poke the hornets’ nest so excessively the other day, now wasn’t it? But that is past ‘Taire. Usually you would have forgotten by now, what’s the matter to-day? It wasn’t much worse at all than any other instance, was it? And what good does the absinthe do? There is no need to continually mistreat yourself, you are not friendless either-» another exaggerated wail by the artist cut off his friend's words of reason

«O how I deserve the sun’s wrath! The sun does good to despise this worthless wretch, he is undeserving of its warmth! O but must it be so cruel to scorch the fool, when it proclaims love and acceptance for all! The entire existence, oh pity us all!» his friend rolled his roasted sarrasin brown eyes at that and clucked in his throat «If you would not use a certain technique for garnering the sun’s attention it might not become so exasperated at times, you are however not worthless and he is not purposefully cruel, my friend. The sun was sorry enough as I recall. He appeared a bit unwell if not irritated too, just having returned from such a long journey, your timing was merely lackluster – And honestly, my dear friend, you are being quite ridiculous now»

The artist grew more sullen at that instead of more cheered «The sun was not to blame but I, Dionysus’s most rotten disciple» «Ah yes, you are, as ever, dramatizing in your drunken condition, capital R, and my humble self believes the sun has not only apologized (« Combeferre made him!» interrupted the artist surly, petulantly) but would gladly embrace you if you would put up an effort – even if he tolerates you without such a hassle, I suppose – an effort, for example to get up and walk outside, the air might sober you up nicely as well. Let’s search for your lost good humor together and see what unfortunate incidents might befall us, what great entertainment one could find - The light of day might bring you inspiration too. Wouldn’t that be something to lift your spirits? After all aren’t you here to bathe in its glory, surely that is better accomplished outside? And most certainly absinthe at this morning hour shan’t be good for you» the artist appeared momentarily chastened, before bursting out the alcohol’s rebuttal:

«Inspiration! Inspiration?! O what is such a thing?! Muse loathes, muse contemns me, muse has long ago turned from this ignoble seeker…My green fairy, my only love…O woe is me! - It is the only cure, the only cure no matter the hour! I am Echo incurring the wrath of a God, a God even amongst Gods! O how magnificent my sun is! Oh I am Icarus and Cassandra! Accursed time, accursed bottomless abyss, accursed spring of life, accursed sun in its punishing glory – how would air and sun deliver the fool?! The suffering this abysmal trap which is called life worsened by its awful disease mankind is inflicting on its prey which is itself! I despise mankind! What’s it worth? And what’s it all to you?!» the artist snorted derisorily, letting his head fall unto the table with an audible ‘thunk'

«O ‘Taire» exclaimed the friend in aggrieved compassion «Some days I do wish you would give value to what deserves it» the gentleness of these words caused the artist to slouch again and to blink up at his friend with blood shot, bleary, pale steel blue eyes as if to provoke, though appearing more beseeching to be saved from himself yet too drunk, self-loathing and defiant to entirely allow it, before collapsing into a boneless heap once more.

«There, there, » lulled his friend with fond aporia, «You are much too drunk, R, won’t you let a friend lend a hand?» he all but pleaded, discreetly trying to snatch away the glass of absinthe, upending it in the process – luckily away from the artist’s work and onto his own threadbare persimmon colored waistcoat, at that he laughed merrily and did not care, and the former reacted with a dejected whine.

«Hah! What a token of good luck » Bossuet smiled amiably «Pardon, pardon!» the artist’s vacant gaze did not lift from his project again, he merely shrugged and sighed aloud melancholically. «Well, now the fiend is gone – before it was but the treacherous absinthe talking again – we both know that - however the poison is freed now of its confines - we did a good deed watering the table , I daresay, you mustn’t grief for it – A good deed a day!- come ‘Taire let it go, cheer up! The sun is quite welcoming of your presence too, I assure you, it is not a malicious being, I for one have no sunburn to show which must account for something»

«Saturn devours his son, Europa is ravished, Andromeda chained, my table drank my medicine - Woe is me! – Have I still some gin left at least?» cried the artist passionately, then hit with a sudden wave of sobriety in a voice pitifully mild asked

«Has Apollo seduced his poor, hapless mortals yet? Has Apollo spoken yet? O my sun, my cruel splendid sun, O my magnificent marble statue, my ferocious transcendent angel of virtue, his beauty blinds, punishes and mars and is yet sweeter than ambrosia…» His friend undisturbed, ruthfully patted the artist’s shoulder in apology, «He has indeed, brilliantly so, as usual.» sorrowful disappointment crossed the artist’s eyes

«Woe is them then, for listening to his siren song.» he said, trying to sound sarcastic and failing «You are a good friend, Eagle of Meaux» mumbled the artist with sad, honest gratitude «The best of them all, O I don’t deserve your worry -»

« – come now! Outside, outside! Will you not join us? What miserable lumination for art and eyes! – Let’s…» – it had been at this precise moment that the entrance of the very man the artist had referred to, with such devotion ripe in his voice even as he cloaked it with derisive sarcasm, as the otherworldly marble Apollo and a middle aged man had come to the bald fellow’s attention,

«Well, he just graced us however fleeting, alas he seemed terribly engaged, unpleasantly as it seemed » he mused, trying to remember the older man’s relevance without much success for he realized that he had never made his acquaintance or laid eyes on him before. «He was in company of a man, not a worker without a doubt, by the looks of it, aristocracy more like it – how strange!» Bossuet remarked quite conspiratorially, both wondering and worrying

«Oh look up will you, Achille Isaïe Grantaire, now you missed it!»

At last the artist’s head snapped up appearing rueful and torpid, belatedly, only catching a miniscule glimpse of his Apollo’s golden locks vanishing into the sideroom, a glimpse which caused a pure tempestuous wave of absolute veneration to lighten up his eyes, chasing, albeit only momentarily, some of the gloom of the absinthe, some of his melancholia off, as if he indeed was a blind man who had through some miracle beheld the great glory of the sun, a shepherd who kneeled before the angelic messenger of the Lord in the Nativity, a void filled with a clear spring of water, a radiant beam of life, a vapor of soul, a breadcrumb to a starving man.

But like a low burned candle it flickered as if in the throes of death and extinguished itself in all silence, leaving the cynical artist in the pitch blackness of his tortured and drunken soul once more.

«O, capital R, missing the man in flesh and blood for your drawn one – Now I cannot even gossip with you or question you if you might have noticed an unusual familiarity in their bearing as well…» «Let me stay here! O my golden sun!» interjected the artist pleadingly as his bald friend made, still in thought, another feeble attempt to gather up the strewn drawing supplies and steer him outside, shaking his head, tsk-ing, chortling 

«’Taire, have you no shame?» inquired the friend half-jokingly following the other’s gaze to the sideroom doorstep  «Tragically no, for it has deserted me years ago, it was as sick of me, as I of it» was all the artist replied, ceasing his frantic sketching, eyes transfixed upon were the merest glimpse of his beloved Apollo’s locks had been spotted only seconds ago, as if hoping that the ethereal creature will once more deign him with his sweet splendor soon, another breadcrumb, just a hint of light piercing his lost existence.

The artist had all the unwavering patience and total surrendering devotion of a canine companion, yesterday’s lesions entirely insignificant and henceforth forgotten as if they had never existed «Enjolras may desire privacy» chided his friend not nearly insistently enough, well aware (as were the other Amis) of the artists merciless abandon, his unrestrainable admiration, his worship of this one young man, Michel Enjolras, their Chief. «The door is open» asserted the artist, renewing his work with much less mania, more acting the part than actually drawing, unabashedly focused on the hidden presence, the siren call, as he had called it earlier, of his punishing muse

Instead «The light is fine» he mumbled, «Apollo has descended into the rot and filth and decay of our mortal coil» his bald friend, somewhat exasperatedly, arrested his cajoling, finally having given up, yet did repeat his earlier consolatory gesture, that is petting the artist but this time with a shake of his head and a sigh, then leaving the man in his not quite so abject misery, even as he made a promise of expeditive return. 

The cynical artist Grantaire, the unwanted Pylades, was a lost man freezing as he wandered through the icescape of distrust and doubt, embittered and dejected by life and humanity, longed for solace of this monument of virtue, the guiding ray of light, the warming bonfire of passion and faith that was his idol Apollo, like air, like water, like the very essence of life he needed him, for it was only within and by the margin of this young man’s presence that his soul was able to dance once more, to indeed feel and be. Indeed his writhing, wounded, seeking soul, so cruelly maltreated into cynicism, faithlessness and distrust, was nourished by the Amis’s  friendship but it was ultimately sustained and mended by his Apollo. As soon as his friend had gone, the cynic rose, drunkenness bleeding out of his system in an adagio of hope and desire, desperate now for his muse’s mere proximity, the ether of Enjolras, in exchange for that of the absinthe, and settled at a table two away from the sideroom door, without much thought or indeed a sense of shame.  

 

~*~

In the interim, upon entering their temporary arena, ringing in what should have become a ferocious battle of slicing tongues and clashing personalities, it was – compelled by a delicate yet poignant memory, the ghost of a dear person long lost and the voice of stoic reason, a control, a self-possession, instilled in him by years of rigorously regimented training of the mind and body, the younger Enjolras –aided by a singular deep breath; having come to a halt, only for the fraction of an instant in a position of facing away from his father, his fingers briefly grazing the smooth wood of the back of the chair before him -, to be the greater of the two, in that he showed remarkable composure, as not only did he restrain his own at times vicious temper, refusing bow before its clawing at old wounds, continually aching and refusing to heal, or the derision of vehement convictions surely to come, in the animosity that flowed between them, tainting the air around them miasmically, thick as tree sap, it was he, the son, who valiantly refused to debase himself, stubbornly grasping at his ideals even as human emotion and righteous fury burned within him acidic, stomped down with the same tyrannical force he so despised in anything but his own ruthless ordinance of his own being, the impatiently enraged M. Ladislas Charles-Aldéric Enjolras sought action now, for he had no such qualms and inner struggles of mind as of present, in seizing his son by the arm with such violence that Michel Enjolras inadvertently had to equally brutally quell within himself long buried memories of abysmal vulnerability, going rigid as a salt pillar, he turned in an instant, refusing ardently to be manhandled, finally facing the man who had caused him such grief in his short life already, his glare so unyieldingly, frigidly polite there was a noticeably start by the Charles who despite letting go of his son’s arm, swiftly regained his umbrage,  

«Monsieur» Enjolras interposed coldly, steading himself, before his opponent could get a word out, as wrath still throttled his father’s throat, «I must beg your pardon, your arrival was most unexpected and caught me unawares. Has your journey been pleasant? Have you been in Paris for long? - » Charles slapped his son then, violently, with the back of his hand twice, a heavy topaz stoned ring on his right ring finger leaving a bleeding cut behind on the young man’s cheek.

«How dare you?! », demanded Charles, his voice a rising snarl unbecoming of a man of his standing, or any man for that matter. «How dare you trail my good name through the mud, publicly no less, you insolent phantast! I should have you put under lock and key, have you arrested, you and your entire Robespierrean mob!»

«You will do as you please» Enjolras annotated dryly, his voice abide on its soft timbre hiding court detachment, which was the supporting crutch he direly needed to withstand the iron hold on himself. He had addressed the man with all the firm politesse he was able to muster, «Indeed, I shall not resist» intrepidly he bid defiance thus.  

« - every last one of your siblings dead before weaned, and I am left with a curse rather than an heir! Must I disavow you? Is that your desire? Ah yes, it is to see the streets run with blood once more, one head after the other, isn’t that true? »

«No, Monsieur» the young man answered calmly, «I seek to liberate the people of France and to triumph humanity»

«Have the canaille overrun us!» intoned Charles mockingly «It is blood you seek and chaos»

«It is prosperity, humanity and freedom», corrected the younger «If blood shall be necessary I shall give mine gladly, the blood of the martyrs and those of the oppressors only – not the blood of starving and desolate, for they have given enough - shall nourish our infant nation and bring it to shining glory once more. »

«Your lot is a hydra! »,snapped the elder, furious. «My name will not be attached to such treachery and madness, you should carry your mother’s name for it was her detestable kin that poisoned your mind!»

«Indeed.»

«You may as well defame their accursed name - I can barely stand the sight of you! It nauseates me - Bastard, you are an ignominy!»

«Of that I am well aware, Monsieur, and rather proud, if I may be so impertinent a sinner.»

« - You and the scum of rabble rousers you associate with -» spat Charles growing more choleric with each insult flung at his son, «Bah! The streets are teeming with wretched vermin, idiotic in their degenerate state, ensurient, delinquent, lustful and dishonest to the bone, and you will have them assume sovereignty! »,

«You speak of the tyrannical system which has created penury, of the aristocracy. I seek to deliver- »

Charles smirked smugly, nostrils flaring «Safe your pretty babble. How arrogantly you pose yourself, what are you but one of the aristocracy, the upper class? You are a hypocrite of the highest order. Pontificating self-righteously in front of the masses barely able to follow your words, when you are nothing but a presumptuous, selfish child! –»

Enjolras tacitly stood towering assertively, his lofty brow furrowed, biting the inside of his cheek ferociously enough to draw blood.

«-which yet knows nothing of life and politics, of filial duty! You are a nightmarish disgrace! Oh if only I was rid of you – you ungrateful traitorous spawn, a slattern’s son!», at that merely the corners of Enjolras’s mouth twitched before his full lips pressed into an even thinner crease and his blue eyes darkened gravely, an abyss «Hence with it then» he answered serenely, «Be free of me, of my dishonor and be done with it» he stared unblinkingly into his father’s spiteful visage. «Frankly, Monsieur, it has been long overdue»

«Why you are a lunatic! What a surprise – a lunatic born of a lunatic’s womb!» cried Charles acting aghast, but smirking in taunt, as if he’d always known.

These nefarious words of vituperation pierced the armor of Michel Enjolras’s stoicism much too ludically, as if there were no barrage at all, much to his own chagrin «Hold your tongue!» he ground out, the strain of the inferno in his heart too much to bear, a searing heat in his veins that turned into a tundra in the crack of a whip «You have no right to speak of Mother thus!» his voice still of its settled cadence yet it’s tone pressed and labored, temper once again flaring, shredding at those chronic wounds, unanchored, thirsting in well-aged anger and hurried to re-trap his rogue emotions but not before bitterly exclaiming: «Think of me whatever you wish, for it is not my mother’s blood that has polluted me!»

Even with its sudden momentum, the first punch thrown had not been entirely unexpected, given his father’s past predilection concerning such behavior, as such Enjolras though momentarily blinded by the force and pain, was well trained in his reaction, turning his head back to resume his stare, two more followed – one to the face and one in the stomach - yet he did not diminish himself by exhibiting any pain, a feat which had taken him many a year of his childhood to accomplish, he did not even lift his hand to wipe at the blood that now welled out of his nose, split lip and from the cut upon his left cheekbone – he had not bothered with shielding himself of the blows and neither did he deliberate on retaliation by virtue of his character.

Metallic sparks and glints, akin to Chinese fireworks, seemed to bounce in his field of vision, dizziness invaded his consciousness and his stomach revolted as it tasted the first inklings of the coppery warmth of his own blood, yet he did not break his icy stare of supreme scorn, rebuking himself severely merely for reveling in his unkind enjoyment of this sentiment of superiority. He knew his body’s inordinate reaction was not the result of the puissance, nor the placement of the assault, not even of its abruptness, no, indeed it was on one hand the resurgence of assaults past, the feelings associated with them, that caused this involuntary physical response, as well as on the other, the fact that Enjolras had not eaten in five days and last drunk water a day ago. Even so, his last meal had been a half of a small piece of Fougasse bread, a single small fig and a glass of chilled ginger tea.

They had returned only the past afternoon from their journey South to visit their families for Easter. It had been a hardly voluntary voyage on his part. Yet honor and duty, the bonds of kinship compelled him to go, as always graciously supplemented by the usual if unncessary minor underhanded emotional blackmail common to his family, to return once more to his ancesteral home, to spent the season with his maternal family, thence forced to be parted from his beloved brothers for three and a half weeks. 

Yestereve, he had told what was admittedly a white lie to both, yet to him it was a despicable, dishonorable act all the same, inexcusable, a grave violation of his integrity which he had not yet, could never forgive himself for. Whether or not they had actually believed him was irrelevant, Combeferre knowning him too well, too intimately, likely had not. The lie was minor to anyone but himself and if considered without proper context, for it encompassed the extent of having already eaten before their reunion, and pursuantly then, to the accord that he felt unwell upon dinnertime and thusly wished to forgo the meal. They had been too busy to notice he had not broken fast with them in the morning. His discretion, his falsehoods, as served to avoid intervention, for he had not wished to be lectured, nor to worry, perturb them, to distract their minds. He felt miserable, ashamed and fearful, a criminal, his guilty conscience weighing upon his heart torturously.

The truth was that he had, in fact, been fasting strictly throughout March and the early weeks of this month.

This fast has had no religious reasons or connotations despite its propinquity to Lententide, of course, for he was an atheist and despised the Church and its corruption and enslavement of minds and societies, but was for purification of focus, clarity of mind, a testing of merit and virtue, a penance, in anticipation of this rally and partly for the aforementioned visit. He had continued his fast after his family’s Easter feast, where he had refused to indulge himself in gluttony yet had to keep up appearances and proprieties, even with potions most meagre of which he still purged himself afterward, and had planned to continue fasting for at least one more week as there was another rally planned for the coming Sunday.

He had tightened the restrictions of his fast, inclemently, to a total one and to include more physical exercise and cold baths, following the Easter feast, malcontent with his continued weakness, spoiled nature and conceding to the norms of his family’s Catholic convictions and societal expectations. Frankly, Enjolras had felt himself in dire need of penitence, of an exercise in discipline and suffering; feared himself in poor condition for his speech – how could a glutton speak of penury and equity? Fasting had become more than a multifunctional tool though, it had become an anchor, a trusted companion which resembled more a witch’s familiar than a comrade, albeit he cherished it nonetheless, the acute clarity of mind it provided while similarly helping him demure, atone for the sins of his ancestors, his own lack of discipline, his deficiencies and failings – no one understood how fasting and purging himself at least muted, placated temporarily those vicious, inexorable, vitriolic intrusive thoughts, how it provided him some tranquil sense of control and order, some miniscule comfort of self-punishment.

Yet his empty stomach had chosen a most inconvenient time to strife for mutiny and he could not comprehend how such a humiliatingly contumelious parapraxis was even feasible, after all he fasted often, ate severely modestly even if he was not actively doing so - his will and body accustomed to the plight. Yet his body, perhaps in response to a terrible combination of grief, tension, anger, pain and hypoglycemia, presently longed to contest his rigid self-possession, an unforgivable and appalling display of weakness. Indeed, this chronology of events did wound his self infinitely more than the blows ever could. He felt nausea and vertigo attempt to claim his mind more insistently now, he still squelched them with all his might left. He could and would not allow himself vulnerability. Punishment for this entire miscue would be allotted at a later point as was his habit.

He despised himself for his untruths, he never used to lie, never used to indulge in such deplorable vice, until the fasting and purging he subjected himself to and keeping up the veneer of invincibility had changed that. He deserved all the punishment in the world for this dishonorable betrayal of his integrity, for his weakness.  

«You have always been a weakling!» snarled Charles, «Look at yourself! No thrashing in the world would cure that, mordieu how I have tried! Weak, useless and arrogant!» declared Charles «Leading - (that you can lead anyone is a marvel to me) - all these young man to their doom, a fragile madman leading a band of blind idealists over a cliff – Do you rest well at night? You think me cruel, what does this make you? You think you deserve their devotion? You think the vulgar rabble will follow you into battle? You are a weak fool!»

« France will rise and devour its tyrants!», Enjolras answered fiercely, the embers in his eyes rekindled into a blaze. «And it will consume you along with them, for you are but a clogwheel in their machine of oppression – and I shall weep, not for grief but joy. We are all but humble servants to our country and its people, nothing more. Greatness, progress for humanity, for our people, otherwise our lives matter not. We fight for the rights and future of an entire nation, I am not the object of their devotion, I wish not to be, no, yet if it liberated and delivered the people, I shall be the first to suffer, if my death or my agony can be a lucifer to them guiding them through the pitch blackness of their apathy towards the glory of morrow  -»

«You deluded crétin, is it death you seek? Let me oblige you then!», the father grabbed his son by the throat, squeezing vigorously, yet the young man did not even blink an eye, he moved no muscle and pleaded no mercy «No, Monsieur, a future for our nation, for the people, a new glorious chapter for mankind.» Charles tightened his fingers against the boy’s Adam’s apple, yet his stare did not wane nor waver, his posture still upright, his expression one of repose.

«Mother could not bear your nature, I shall not give you such satisfaction. Beat me, insult me, do as you please, I am yet unbroken and thusly will I remain. These citizens are the most honorable, loyal, brave defenders of our people, knights in the name of advancement of mankind, and furthermore they are my friends. I will defend, serve and honor them to my very last breath, to the last beat of my heart, my last drop of blood. Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort! A nation of hunger, of squalor, hardship, men driven to crime and barbarity, even the lowliest of them, as you would see them, they, indeed Patria, Iustitia and Liberty are my masters - You are beyond my contempt – Mother believed in redemption, a notion which haunts me. I must forgive you, thusly, for she did, no matter how you maltreated her – »

«Your mother was a madwoman not a saint, you ignorant boy!» Charles let go of his son’s throat with a jeering laugh.

«She was neither» Michel Enjolras felt his throat constrict as if it were still being choked, he swallowed as if around an obstruction «Nevertheless she was a woman of great character, faith and intellect – one you were undeserving off, one you drove to despair, one that gave her essence of compassion to everyone but herself. I stand here out of sheer obligation yet I will not listen to you defile her name any longer - »

«What is there to defile? Lest we forget how she died.» scoffed Charles mockingly «She was just as weak as the bastard she birthed me and as mad too. How could her blood supersede mine? I refuse to believe I have sired you! You cuckoo’s egg! Had I never married her -»

«Her money and standing -»

«Don’t you dare talk back to me, boy!»

«Monsieur, you can hardly gainsay this circumstance – for why should you have married her if not for that? Love?» Another slap followed swiftly.

«Careful, you impertinent lurdan!» Charles roared.

«What leverage you have to threaten me with?» young Enjolras slightly raised his voice in defiance, to be heard, yet did not yell or cry out, a natural orator his voice carried without enforcement, but his timbre of voice remained sedated, despite the turmoil in his soul. «Will you indeed have me arrested or committed? Have them chain me? Be free to! See if you succeed. You are enraged for I am under Mother’s protection still! Her family, my kin, will not stand idly by, they never have. Go ahead, have me arrested - Witness my will remain intact as France's will has under the thumb of your ilk for centuries, the difference is the same – you will create another martyr and I will bear my cross to my grave-»

«Do you think yourself Christ-like? A greater count of blasphemy as never been uttered!»

«Yes, of course that is what I meant. » the young man interrupted, bitingly sarcastic.

«Watch your tone, boy!»

«Believe me, I am, Monsieur, I most certainly am.»

«Go ahead and wipe this pharisaic conceitedness off your girl’s face (even if it is the only reason any of these gullible, baying imbeciles look at you twice), halt your luring speeches – You appear all too proud of ruining the lives of those young men, their families, and your intent on doing the same to France, are you not? Ah but I am the villain of this story. Are you proud of yourself? Tell me, boy, do those idealists know all of you? Your weakness, your fragile health? Your tainted blood? Of your mother’s history, her cause of death? Now, if they were to find out» Charles stalked once more into the boy’s personal space, smiling malevolently. Once more the other did not flinch nor retreat, there was no fear in him, his dignity shone bright.

Charles was close enough for the young Enjolras to register the familiar faint rank of brandy on his breath which was covered to nearly all the world by costly Italian cologne and aftershave balsam, breath mints and olive oil soap. Agonizing memories he had long since battled, long since thought conquered and locked away in the farthest recesses of his mind flooded back with ease, as if a dam had had broken, no longer able to withstand the deluge of storm waters.

«Ah yes, now we have arrived at the stage of threats being flung. I was wondering when we would reach this point, actually. »

«Merely an innocent case of curiosity, a bit of an intellectual game, if you wish, which you are free to interpret as you please. But do humor me and answer: Would these young men entrust their lives to the brood of a madwoman? Would an entire nation? A mere youth, weak, of diseased lineage and mind. Well, is that still no leverage on you, boy? Might that not be a fear which grips you tightly in those dark hours of doubt, I wonder -»

«Your mind games and threats have lost their effect many a year ago. I do not fear you, Monsieur, and am no longer a helpless child at anyone's mercy. The only emotion I do retain for you is contempt, as I have yet to reach the more divine notions of pity and forgiveness which I seek. »

Charles laughed snidely at that. «You entertain me with your nonsense, boy. Contempt, you say? Have contempt for your own pathetic self. »

«Well, I aim to please, apparently. You are welcome, Monsieur. »

«You certainly are glib, I will concede that much. »

«Are we done with this spiel yet? How have you not yet grown tired of bullying me? I am hardly worth the effort in contrast to its return. »

«Are you truly naïve enough to believe yourself immune to calumny?»

«Only a man whose conscience is pure, whose soul is laid bare, who is no slave to his base desires must not fear slander. I will rather stand in confessional before the entire world than sully, hamper our cause and my mother’s legacy by silence or deceit. Well, however, I am dreadfully sorry to rob you of your entertainment in such a simplistic manner. »

«You are an imbecile to so willingly bring ruin upon your own head. But do go ahead, I entreat you. It will be a marvelous spectacle. You are most certainly not cut out for the world of politics, boy. You pose no danger but to yourself and to those daydreaming fools which follow you. »

«Maybe that is so, and perhaps that is my curse or my blessing. Or both. » answered he equably «But Monsieur, beware such a critical error in judgement.» warned the young man in a tone that was now as forceful as it was sepulchral « **Never** underestimate your opponent. »

«Not quite as above threats yourself, I see.»

«Au contraire, Monsieur. It is but a benign piece of advice and is this not one of the cardinal rules of the art of warfare? But to be uncouthly blunt: I tire of this waste of time, as should you. I was orphaned of my Mother but a child, orphan me of my supposed sire in all formality at last. We both are aware that I was never the heir you wished me to be. Go forth in search of another. There are plenty of cousins after all, and enough unfortunate young women of noble lineage and wealth too. You could have done so years ago - neither of us have to gain or lose a thing. Put an end to this farce for your own sake rather than mine. »

«Suit yourself» the elder hissed, «You are beyond reason and I beyond bother – see what it brings you and your lot – all of this mulishness for naught but death and justly so, a traitor receives his nemesis e’er anyways – fine, play your thespian games, your bloodthirsty Hébertist insanity!»

«What else is there to say then? Disown me. It shall be as though I never existed to you. Even though I do not see how this would contest some major change. Yes, I have disowned you in sentiment long before Mother's death.» the young Enjolras regarded his opponent for a long moment, and witnessed the true adversary, a man who had been willfully consumed and corrupted, a man who was beyond his grasp, a frightful token of the purgatory of spiritual, societal abyss, a man of a breed which spit in the face of redemption for they felt in no need of deliverance, a breed which had existed since the dawn of time and plighted humanity from thence. Enjolras, a creature born of faith, of hope, of a grand yearning, a fierce fire of heart, could not yet fully understand that this man was his true reverse.

The cynic Grantaire was not this counterpart, for his cynicism stemmed from a tentative faith plundered, a hope lost, a soul beaten into submission and shielding itself from death, despair and the tortures of the wilderness surrounding it with armor of apathy and libel. A cynical soul is a soul thirsting, a soul which is a child drowning in need of a savior, a soul which is a wounded animal cornered, a soul which is a dreamer suffering from insomnia, a soul which is the wayward son, it is but a pilgrim lost along his way. That was Grantaire, a believer broken and lost. He would not be freely entrapped by his devotion to his Apollo and revived by the friendship of the Amis otherwise.

Cynicism resembled many an illness but it is more difficult to treat than most for it could appear as a hex of protection, as a rightful reaction to the brutality of mankind to its sufferer, in some chronic cases it might never be cured fully or at all. There are cynics to which hope in their hearts, like seeds in a garden, can only sprout with something substantial like water, sun, soil, fertilizer – they must be able to feel and touch and hear the change before they will allow themselves to have faith even than it is easily shattered, but how would change ever come to pass if all the world were such a patient? The great man of change had and have a bold sort of courage, they make leaps, they allow a sliver of uncertainty to remain, but the cynic is akin to a hermit sealing himself away in a cabin far from any civilization to escape but one simple phobia, they will not be free of fear for long, fear will find them again in another guise, their hearts are paralyzed by their memories of loss and pain and by distrust bone deep, but most of them desire faith, admire it, some ridicule it yet their soul might still long for it underneath.

Faith is a spirit being, like soul itself, some say it is akin to talent – that some are born with it and others lack it by nature - others feel that faith is a trait of disposition, that it can be learned and retained when nurtured and trained, a salmon against the current. The faithful are not free of doubt, doubt is human, doubt is an important instigator of reflection, introspection and prudence but they refuse to be consumed by it and at times the faithful are brazen for it and make history. Indeed, fortunately, Grantaire was a mirror of mankind more than Monsieur Ladislas Charles-Aldéric Enjolras was. The young Enjolras had an awful epiphany of lucidity, brief yet powerful wash over him.

An end had come, a curtain call which was his to direct, it was his step to make and as was his conviction he did not step but leap. A brief respite of ataraxis replaced this pellucidity, before once again becoming but a taunting fugitive lingering continually just outside his reach.

«What’s that matter, boy, have you lost your tongue?» Charles sneered.

«Adieu, Monsieur» With that final utterance Michel Enjolras made to strive past his father for the ultimate time. «As it happens I have a people to liberate.» «Don’t dare turn your back on me, you worthless bastard lunatic!» Charles bellowed enraged beyond proprieties, once again turning his son around in seizing him by the arm and throat, his walking cane clunking to the floor with a dull thud. This act of aggression was only interrupted by the artist Grantaire and the bald lad Bossuet, who had come rushing in at the commotion. Grantaire then halting suddenly as if he had been a sleepwalker startled into waking, a balking horse, remembering that he was indeed in the same enclosed space as his Apollo and coming to his aid, the inebriation had been wiped entirely from his consciousness, his striped cravat tangled and askew around his neck, his plain, slightly pockmarked face displaying openly his indignant outrage, a force of nature akin to a typhoon, eyes grimly determined and wide as if he could not quite fathom what he was seeing, as he stood riveted in his spot mere feet away, his body became most tightly sprung, his muscles visibly straining in preparation to attack the assailant.

The artist was a boxer, skilled in Savate and the art of the singlestick, facts the elder Enjolras was unaware of, so he did pose a formidable threat indeed. «Enjolras!» the bald fellow exclaimed with a gasp, «Take your hands of off him now, man, or you’ll see how quickly I can break your neck – To hell with it, go ahead, do give me a reason!» the artist all but growled, a low guttural noise fountaining reverberatingly forth from his very core, and the words were spoken with such coldly primal fury, such promise that the older man was for a second gripped tightly by a very real fright of harm. Apollo’s eyes had gone wide in a daze of bedlam and disbelief as if he were in a state of doubting reality, he swallowed thickly, his maimed throat dry, and blinked feathery as if it would dispel the mirage but the artist’s image was not carried away by a squall of desert wind.

«Grantaire -?» was all he could muster, a breath of a question, his expression a mixture of bottomless astonishment, confusion, embarrassment and an innocent wisp of gratitude which even seemed to escape his own notice. The young man spoke no more and had it been any other day, at one of the meetings of the Amis, the artist would have been gloating endlessly on about having struck this natural, relentless orator speechless, but presently Grantaire was focused in the way of anticipating combat and would not have cared if he had noticed. Monsieur Charles Enjolras recovered his bearings rabidly, unwrapping his fingers from his son’s throat – that is without too much haste, affecting casual disregard - and unclasped his arm. «What in heaven’s sake is going on here? Are you alright? Pardieu you are bleeding! Here, let me see, come you should sit – çà, were is Joly or Combeferre when one is in need of a doctor?», Bossuet stepped closer to Enjolras

«Like the rats!» proclaimed Monsieur Charles annoyed, incensed «I should have killed you an infant» sneered he at his son under his breath «It is nothing of significance, a private matter, citizen Bossuet » the young man responded, his iron hold having returned to him, lifting his left hand, fluidly elegant, in a brief stopping motion to Bossuet’s attempts at handing him his kerchief, an quiescence so eerie, so unfailing sublime in dignity, that one might have dubitated his mortality and utilized the misleading fancy of the artist Grantaire that this young man was indeed a God more than an earthbound creature of dust, blood and thought.

«There» chuckled he snidely «I was mistaken, the carousing rabble **has** come to your aid after all.» «Silence!» round the young Enjolras measuredly, «I’d step away if I were you and leave quickly! I’ll break your neck like a twig, old man!» snarled Grantaire, baring his teeth in a feral grimace, focused on defending his muse, a beast ready now tear to shreds his prey, he clashed however with his friend Bossuet instead who was barely able to restrain the artist with great strain «Grantaire, stop! Get ahold of yourself! Give it a rest! ‘Taire stop it!» Charles recoiled, nearly a humiliating jump, paling, he too was in utter disbelief, tongue-tied and sorely shocked, for it had been close to a decade that he had been opposed and surely close to fifteen years that he had been threatened with bodily harm himself, which had, naturally, been a courtesy of his late wife’s brothers.

«Cease, Grantaire!» commanded Enjolras, voice soft but strict, the artist found his stern gaze immediately, flustered, his jaw grinding but expression meek and adoring as a child, and did just that, he stood at attention akin to a soldier, chastened. Therefore, in an unexpected gust of soulful sentiment, his muse added kindly, even more quiescently «Thank you. » the sincerity in these words was felt like the blade of a knife within the artist’s entire being «Be assured I treasure your intention – Cease, nevertheless, for rationality’s sake. It will do no good. » upon hearing these mere words, which still sounded like a honeyed serenade to him, the artist held only ecstatic bliss in his bearing, was fully stupefied as if embraced by the tears of the poppy and gave his friend no more toil who experimentally removed his hold off him yet stayed close by.

Enjolras nodded satisfied enough with Grantaire’s unexpected bout of obedience and glanced at Bossuet, his natural leadership, his charisma oozing into his glance like the blood out of his nose.

«This Monsieur and I happened to disagree quite vehemently on a topic of discussion. As you see, I must have most discourteously enraged him greatly, for which I was about to sincerely beg his pardon.» Enjolras picked up his father’s walking cane and handed it to him with a polite half-bow, earning another sneer, and with that, without another address to the two young men or so much as another word to his son, Monsieur Ladislas Charles-Aldéric Enjolras surged past them in a heavy tread, throwing one more potent glare at his son

«Drown in your foolishness then, let the vermin consume you -», thence almost bumping into the ginger haired working boy spied before «Watch your step, peasant caitiff lout!» he inveighed, frank in his disgust. Poor Feuilly, who had been merely trying to retrieve some more pamphlets and booklets, froze in complete bewilderment, flinching involuntarily at the words, too astounded to give a proper repudiation. «Oh, euh I-I beg your pardon, Monsieur» he stammered out obtusely instead, even as the other man was already past him, then in turn looking as if he wished to pinch himself for this subservience in that very same instant.

«This young man, a true champion of the French people, is and will always be of a profoundly grander character, heart and mind than you will ever dream of being!» called the son after his father, passionately, a final outburst of uncharacteristically ribald emotion.

Feuilly’s eyes whipped from the instigator of the insult to Enjolras and back, utter confusion and indignation changing partly into one of modest pride followed by embarrassed incredulousness which caused a fierce blush to creep up his neck and cheeks, Enjolras strode up to the young workingman without hesitation, Bossuet was still chattering out his inquiries and outcries trailing him, holding his handkerchief akin to a Torero’s cape, or a Matador’s muleta.

As he passed Grantaire, who stumbled a step back clearing the passage, he sought his gaze imperiously, but the artist’s eyes still held a blank look of bewitchment and returned his gaze not, thoughts lost in abstraction. «Mea maxima culpa» he said, addressing a confounded Feuilly, in a tone perennially firm in its heartfelt sincerity and veracious in its sensible consternation.

«Please forgive this, my friend.» Enjolras’s hand came up to hover over the other young man’s shoulder in a gauche manner, not actually touching, Feuilly smiled shakily, righting his cap as he faced him, as if unsure what else to do with his hands, Enjolras swiftly let his fall to his side in a sharp military manner before the other could comment upon the gesture. Feuilly knit his brow, a wildly perturbed, concerned look of genuine, innocent incomprehension and mystification darkened his expressive chocolate brown eyes.

« - Sure! Thank you?…but why are you apologizing to me…you aren’t responsible at all…I mean apology accepted nevertheless, so everything well and good on my part but…um still…are you alright?» Feuilly’s eyes widened as the young man finally noticed his friend’s bloodied state. « Nom de bleu-palsambleu-merd-…what the…?!»

« Unfortunately, this man’s behavior does tend to redound upon mine. » Enjolras replied cryptically, raising his left hand dilatorily up to his nose,  «It is a matter of honor, of character. » he said by way of explanation, again his hand returned to his side  

« Guilt by association, a logical fallacy, yet fait accompli» «Er, yes that might be so but that doesn’t matter much, I reckon - You are bleeding pretty badly though, but uh I guess you are aware of that, of course you are, why shouldn’t you be? You should sit and pinch your nose.» said Feuilly slowly, trying his best to find reason within Enjolras’s demeanor.

«Marble shouldn’t bleed!» cried Grantaire vehemently, yet the others ignored his tempest of speech, as they frequently did. «Marble **does not** bleed. Marble **cannot** bleed!» The artist starred unabashedly, a poor guise of his usual sardonic mimic haphazardly pinned into place, his gaze pursuing ever drop of blood as though they were raindrops on a windowpane.

«Is this an entertaining sight, Grantaire?» snapped Enjolras in spite of himself, the heightened summation of emotion and nausea weakening his composure.

«It is not, Apollo» sputtered the artist barely audibly. «I just never thought I’d ever witness the miracle of fine marble crying tears of blood!»

«Oh Feuilly, the Gods should praise your superior observational skills, bleeding badly he is indeed» called Bossuet on his way to the door chuckling «-bless your heart, why do you think I am going to go fetch Combeferre?»

«No!» Enjolras’s tone had been so authoritative, so akin to a bray, that Bossuet all but froze. «There is no need.» Bossuet stared at him as if he had grown a second head. Enjolras was quick to rephrase anxious to appear less on edge. He was most certainly not himself to-day, he was being unkind to those most dear to him. His vision had been blurring on and off since awakening this morning, he felt continuously cold and exhausted, his entire body ached and he had been by turns bilious and melancholic.

«That is not necessary. » the young revolutionary repeated in a voice mildly benignant, wishing he had Courfeyrac’s uncanny ability to conjure up an expression best described as an imploringly huge eyed, bedraggled looking puppy. « It is but a bit of nosebleed, I shall survive such a trifle nuisance. I do not require medical attention. Combeferre’s task is important, it is imperative he must not be disturbed. Neither should Joly. » «Won’t you sit down for a bit, at least?» pleaded Bossuet perplexed, torn between his rational quest and his friend’s odd request «We should find you a glass of water too whilst we are at it»

«Thank you, citizen Bossuet. That is not needful either. » said Enjolras tersely but charitably, his voice deliberately strong. Feuilly and Bossuet shared a look saturated with utter puzzlement and most profound alarm. Compulsively swallowing the bitter hypersalivation collecting in his mouth, he required all his concentration and strength not to concede to his body’s demand to purge itself of the non-existent contents of his stomach on the spot, Enjolras thanked his friends in his usual formal manner. His nausea was now so predominant that even the thought of a simple glass of water was nearly too much to handle. He would not be able to sit, even for the merest second, for he would either be unable to stand again or faint upon attempting to. He could not show any more vulnerability, his useless body’s capers were interfering once again with his service to the people of France and he would not stand for it.

«Your kind concern honors you. » said he to Bossuet, heartfelt appreciation in his tone, excusing himself he then turned slyly to avert his gaze in a seemingly natural manner, as he ostensibly went to seek out a serving girl or the proprietress of the Café to ask for assistance in procuring a bit of water, not to drink but to clean himself up with, a turn that was more so necessary to conceal his declining state from his friends.

It had been an inexcusable disgrace any of the Amis had witnessed his father’s outrageous behavior, his repute was quite possibly damaged beyond repair in their eyes, consequently a shred of dignity to keep was not too much to ask. Whatever Bossuet and Grantaire had overheard would soon find itself on a pilgrimage amongst the Amis. Enjolras was ruined yet he hoped against hope that they had not heard his father’s words on the topic of his mother especially.

Aware that exiting the Café in this state was out of the question, he would give his best to appear presentable apace. Once again, a new wave of shame, anger and grief burned in his veins.

A child and adolescent his sole friends had been Combeferre and Courfeyrac, in whose arms he did, selfishly, childishly, desire to let himself fall into now, albeit as usual he denied himself the comfort. He desired to allow Combeferre to take charge, confess to his white lie and be cared for, undeserving as he was. Yet he could not bring himself to do so. He could not stomach another failure on this day. Speaking of Combeferre, he would, ever observant, be the one to decipher him anyways but would let it be if he found the strength to carry on as normal, or at least that is what he hoped for. He may need to keep his distance. And furthermore hoped that, notwithstanding, his condition would not be noticed or ignored by the general consensus of people should he clean himself up properly and continue on in endurance. He had decided on the proprietress, being certain were she could be found.

«Enjolras?» It was not Bossuet or Feuilly who had followed him, as he would have wished for if it was inevitable, but the wine-cask Grantaire. Truthfully, Enjolras had not expected the sensible fellows to trail him, he had lost their friendship to-day after all. Grantaire, however, was a monster of entirely different breed. The man was an enigma, an aggravating nuisance, a disruption in his otherwise structured existence, yet no matter how harshly Enjolras treated him, he refused to be chased off, remaining a ghostly presence in their sphere, never far, following along on all their outings, attending all their meetings. Enjolras could not comprehend Grantaire, which happened on a very fundamental plane.

When the rare instances in which the artist was not hopelessly intoxicated came to pass his tone, conduct and bearing when addressing Enjolras was a confusing blend of sarcasm, metaphor and inexplicable gentle, advertent courtesy, in airs that reached far beyond mere amicable, companionate and affable, and more akin to saccharine and gallant, which by the young revolutionary was either not recognized at all or perceived as taunting, as joking, as deriding, when it was in truth defensiveness of his soul hiding but the most profound love, veneration and devotion.

Enjolras found he was in no fit state to deal with anyone lest of all Grantaire no matter how astounded he felt regarding the artist’s fervid defense of him prior. Refusing to bestow attention he would regret, or speak spiteful words that would add to his burden of sin, he did not acknowledge the address. He could feel his self-control drain, his exhaustion was starting to wear him thin, body entreating him to give in unforgivingly. If, in the entire world, there was one person who would manage to crawl under his skin and steadily chaff at his very last nerve on even a good day, it was Grantaire – now he would be the nail in the coffin of his self-possession.  «Apollo, come on now, you are being terribly rude -»

«Grantaire, go away, leave me be.» he had spoken deliberately ungraciously curt yet the drunkard was not discouraged in the slightest. «Enjolras, why won’t you let our Eagle and good Feuilly help? They mean well. You look as though you might faint -»

«Well, I do appreciate your usual disparagement of my character, however I do, most certainly, not feel in the mood for your belittlement and ridicule at present. » «Please, Apollo, for once tell me: How I can be of service to you?» Enjolras whirled about, eyes cobalt with anger so fierce it made the other man startle back, Enjolras barked «Enough with your mocking!» Grantaire visibly winced, deflating into himself, he could not muster his usual defiance, his pale blue eyes were sorrowful and pleading, he appeared deeply poleaxed and violated by the insinuation, by the thought that his Apollo would think him this mean and miscreant «Enjolras- » he began his voice faint and strangled, yet heartbreakingly earnest, Enjolras did not seem to notice the doleful fog in the other’s eyes nor the exculpating insistence in his tone, he interrupted him immediately

«Grantaire, I most politely ask you to abstain from bothering me. Please, if you wish to do the sensible thing for once: Leave me be. » with that Enjolras strode forth, he knocked politely on the backroom door and was promptly invited in. Grantaire had not left however, he was lingering a couple of steps behind, riling as if he had been physically struck yet unwilling to nurse his wounds with more absinthe in some corner, his laudable worry for Enjolras took precedence.

~*~

In the backroom the proprietress of the Café Madame Brassard, the Widow Hucheloup, Mme. LeClerc, a spinster teacher, and another woman by the name of Mme. Palomer, the Provencal owner of a nearby bookshop of which Enjolras and Combeferre were faithful customers, were sitting together over coffee and gossip. Madame Brassard, busy with her sewing, was a willowy woman with thick taupe hair, a jagged scar circular around her neck, hands which were so scarred, gnarled and aged they could have belonged to a woman trice her age, alert, intelligent light brown eyes inhabited by a haunted look, and a cleft chin, presently clad in a heavy burgundy dress that seemed to swallow her akin to an ocean maelstrom.  «We are visited by an angel, how lovely! Which one of you has been praying?» Mme. LeClerc enthused as she beheld the handsome young revolutionary.

«A bleeding one» Madame Brassard interrupted drily with an undertone of worry «Ha! That’s one of mine, alright, old goose!» exclaimed the Widow Hucheloup with the gloating air of a parent. «The one I told you about. A most fine, well-mannered, helpful young gentleman if you’ll believe such a marvel still exists. He’s quite extraordinary even amongst **my** students, for he knows no frivolity. He has the Christian name of an angel too. »

«My apologies for the interruption, Mesdames.» Enjolras bowed deeply

« His mother is a lucky woman indeed. » smiled Mme. Palomer kindly

«Goodness, pray tell, Monsieur Enjolras what dangerous nonsense have you and your wild friends been up to now?»

«Yes, an old woman can’t help but be curious, have you fought a policeman again, young man, or another royalist student?» inquired Mme. Palomer, with a long-suffering sigh, the Widow Hucheloup meanwhile insistently frowned at Grantaire and shook her head, tapping her friend Mme. LeClerc on the back of the hand «If I had to bet anything, I’d say my drunkard has had a hand in this!» she declared.

« Grantaire, speak up, you impolite good for nothing» she inquired sternly «What have you done to get this poor **respectable** boy into this state?» she asked wagging her pointing finger at the artist threateningly, Grantaire made to speak up but closed his mouth abruptly, dumbly instead, a decidedly sheepish conscience-stricken  look about him «The Lord and all the saints help you if you did! I know not why these proper gentlemen put up with you anyways!»

«Oh do be quiet, you nosy old shrew and leave the young man be. » Mme. LeClerc said «I do not know him but I happen to feel he had nothing to do with Monsieur Enjolras’s condition! » «Oh, what do you know?!» cried the Widow offended « My drunkard, that poor soul, he is sweet and besotted beyond sanity, be told. But, alas, a wretched troublemaker, not the good kind like honorable Monsieur Enjolras here and his friends either – Agathe Brassard I told you not to have your girls serve that moonstruck tosspot a drop!» Madame Brassard shaking her head in exasperation at the bickering, stood dutifully, motherly affection blooming in her eyes

«Come, never mind them, young man. Let’s get you poor thing cleaned up. I would not tarnish my reputation by incurring the wrath of such a well-born young man’s mother, after all. » Enjolras kissed her hand respectfully. «Thank you Madame, that is most generous, but to show me where I can find a bit of water and a rag would definitely suffice-» «Oh nonsense!» rebuffed the Widow immediately and Enjolras was too engulfed by nausea to protest much more.

«See you treat him good, Agathe» she told her friend solemnly «that one is special! My own darling Saint Just, I have you know, France needs his pretty goldilocks intact. One day his name will be written alongside those men’s in the books of history, I am sure of that. »

«Have a bit of faith in me, Thècle, my children are all still alive! Oh and I have your students throw their little gathering here have I not? We all kindled a pyre under that Austrian harlot Madame Veto back in the day, we drove her out well and should have burned her at the stake and had our bread! If that does not guarantee us a front seat at one future execution or another what will?»

«Ah» laughed the Widow nodding «Those were the times! Those were the days of France’s glory! We should have burned them all! But anyways, he is one of mine, you see, my otherwise stone dead heart bleeds to see him so! Oh and of course, my wineshop will be known to the future generations too!»

«Says the one with the deadliest kitchen in Paris!» Mme. LeClerc scoffed rolling her eyes «I may attempt to poison them with my bad oysters but I do happen to care for my students, most of them are too smart to fall for my tricks anyways, that’s how you sniff out a good bunch (she tapped her nose at this). I do care and for that boy in particular! So see you pamper my sweetest Saint Just -»

«Oh hush will you, I will I will!» Mme. Brassard regarded him briefly, surveying his state critically. «He’ll survive, alright.» Mme. Brassard decreed shrugging «Look how pale he is though!» Mme. LeClerc cried anxiously «Mhmhm, he always is, he drinks no liquor or wine – no wine! Can you believe? Not a drop of wine! And no coffee either - how a human can exist without coffee I cannot fathom! A good Frenchman who drinks no coffee, imagine! – that’s why he is so thin, only skin and bones, I reckon!» the Widow explained as if it were some rare gem of wisdom. 

«His poor mother must be horrified! I pray she never comes to complain to me! I’ll tell her: ‘My Lady, he never eats a thing and drinks only water, and that too little, what is an old woman to do against such folly of youth?! My Lady most gracious must have mercy on me and appeal to her son, for it bleeds all hearts of Paris to see him so! Our angel of the people but skin and bones! Our patron Saint ’-»  «- Maybe he tries to avoid being poisoned by bad oysters, you cotquean! »

«Enough, enough! Do not speak of the boy’s mother, you have no manners, all of you, keep your noses in your own business, can’t you bats see that you are making the poor boy ill at ease?» Mme. Brassard rolled her eyes, ambling past the bespoken young man.

«Pardon the interruption a thousand times. Enjoy your gathering, Mesdames. » bid Enjolras with a bow, eliciting a bout of gushing praise of his manners.

Madame Brassard proceeded to usher him out and wave her hand in the direction of another sideroom. «I will get you a basinful of water, a hand mirror – if one can be found -  and a facecloth or some fresh rags of linen, you do wait here – » she studied him a bit before turning «Well, young man, you are indeed terribly pale and gamin thin, one could think you are one of them, it’s not proper or healthy it all, are you certain you do not wish to have a glass of – well, is there anything you do drink? Water, syrup in water, or juice, or milk, anything? It’s on the house too, chief concern is to put some color on your cheeks.»  

«That is most gracious of you, Madame, but I must, unfortunately, most politely decline your generous offer. My most sincere apologies. » «I see» Madame Brassard stated, vexed understanding dawning on her «You are a case of inedia prodigiosa, eh? The male example of one of those medieval fasting maids – only that you sustain yourself on the fervor of justice and revolution instead of religious mania and piety. A formidable feat, if not a healthy one. But youth never listens to the old, so I will not try to dissuade you or scold you, it is not my place anyway.»

She left Enjolras - and Grantaire, for he had not heeded Enjolras’s earlier words still, keeping up guard of his Apollo, albeit from a distance, with settled, unshakeable fidelity – with that.

 

~*~

«Wherefore are you here, Grantaire? Why do you keep accompanying us?» asked Enjolras tiredly «Does taunting me amuse you this substantially?» Enjolras strolled slowly into the middle of the room, his gait clipped, directionless, as he still felt unable to settle, thus paced. Grantaire remained at the door, leaning against the frame, one arm loosely folded in front of his chest, the other scraping playfully at the weathered wood.

«Have you sworn to liberate furniture as well as the people, Golden Leader? Are you indeed in no need of nourishment other than the fire of revolution?»

«Every word you utter you insist to be a riddle.»

«Well, I have no such intention, actually. I am cursed. »

Enjolras made to tilt his head back to stem the flow of the blood more but Grantaire spoke up hastily «Don’t, Apollo» he warned benignly «To swallow too much blood or have it run to your lungs is not advisable – please, do believe a man who has had his nose broken countless times.» the artist was beyond surprised when Enjolras heeded his advice tentatively and did not argue. «You are not a bleeder are you?» Grantaire knew clotting disorders were common amongst the aristocracy and elite, Enjolras would need medical attention urgently if this were the case. «No, I am not. It does not run in my family, to my knowledge. » At least this one curse has not befallen me, thought the young revolutionary bitterly.

«That is good then » assured the artist more himself than the other. «You must pinch your nose a bit, it will stop the bleeding more readily and do keep your head down towards your chest. » «Yes, I forgot this maneuver was a useful one. » Enjolras followed his regime of advice much to the artist’s consternation.

«I shall give credence to you on this matter» proclaimed the young blond reluctantly «I have witnessed Bahorel and yourself box on multiple an occasion. » Grantaire chuckled softly «Bahorel, that devil, has an almighty punch. He sure knows how to swing a good fight. If it were my volition he should be your shadow wherever you venture. » he straightened were he stood, studying his Apollo uneasily. «Well, I must confess» began the artist cautiously, Apollo scrutinized him in turn «I am surprised to hear you were beaten bloody thusly before. Although, considering your fiery convictions-» «Yes, I was. » interrupted Apollo nonchalantly «Most men were, I guess, at one point or another. It is unfortunate in its brutal, barbaric inhumanity but it happens even when it should not. » elaborated Enjolras with defensive detachment.

«You are not a pacifist though. You revere the great men of the guillotine.» teased Grantaire, regretting his words as soon as they had been formed. «Violence is a specialized tool necessary at times yet despicable in general» replied the revolutionary «A tool best used sparingly and poignantly when the need arises. A Republic has the right to defend itself from enemies within as from any foe» «That went well the first time, didn’t it? A nation devouring itself and its revolution. »

Grantaire was a fool, he knew that; he ruined these rare pleasant occasions as he could not handle to be addressed an equal by Enjolras. He did not deserve a God’s attention, even as he egoistically survived on the banter and arguments they shared across the backroom at the Amis’ meetings. Enjolras scowled, sullen and apprehensive, his eyes aflame with annoyed insult and querulous anger.

Yet Apollo did not, as expected and hoped for, reward Grantaire with one of his usual winding lectures. «Do you know singlestick? » the artist inquired in a mild, pleasant voice apropos «Grantaire, for the last time: I am **no** damsel in distress!» scathed Enjolras having taken considerable offense to this query, «You are not. » attested the artist with a sardonic grin «The regular damsels of chivalric lore do not attempt to claw their savior's eyes out upon rescue, although our bantam poet might know more of this matter than I. »

«Do be informed that I am perfectly capable of defending myself.» He took note of the familiar barely noticeable but recurring tremors Enjolras attempted to stifle.

«Yet you did not. »

«Indeed, I did not. »

«Wherefore is that?»

«You know well the reasons, do not play obtuse and ask inane rhetorical questions. It is unbecoming and insults both our intellects. »

«It was not a rhetorical question. My slow witted, asinine self merely cannot come to an understanding of your refusal to defend yourself. Indeed, I am well aware Bahorel has been teaching you some Savate – he praises your talents highly – and you, from what I have heard, happen to be quite the superb fencer as well.»

«My skills are average in either, they are, however, sufficient. Citizen Bahorel is a brilliantly talented, patient teacher indeed but, it appears, overly generous in his praise. »

«You are deflecting. »

«Yes.»

«Forgive my nosiness, Leader dearest, yet I cannot help but think of it. A feeling of fellowship, like the one our good Feuilly and his beloved Poland share, I suppose. To speak frankly: To hell with filial piety, I say. Children are not debtors. There is nothing to repay if nothing has been given. The last time my stepfather dared lay a hand upon my sisters and myself, I returned the favor. Almost killed the old man. » the artist bit his tongue, the words having once again escaped him unimpeded, the vicinity of his revered Apollo having had this bizarre effect on him ever since the divinity had first descended to earth and held dialogue with him. What paltry measure self-control he still possessed Enjolras eradicated with the sole grace of his presence. That was perhaps because the tattered, vulgarized remnants of hope in Grantaire wished to bare his pathetic, miserable, baneful soul to his angel, to be saved, healed, embraced, to be reshaped to his angel’s imagining. Enjolras halted his pacing, his permeating gaze reached into Grantaire’s very being as usual, grasping his heart with fierce clemency.

His inscrutable expression ensnared the artist who found himself astonished to spot a placid silken edge of empathic commiseration, different from the usual lordly pity Enjolras commonly awarded him, hidden betwixt disapproval and outrage – the bliss of this commiseration warmed his continually frostbitten spirit. «It is an aberration of nature» mused the young blond, regret, grievance and indignation soaking his timbre «A father desecrating the laws of parental care and duty. It should be punishable by law. Any person who brutalizes another - whether it be a man, woman or child victimized - must be held liable by the courts. A child in dependency maltreated specifically is a dishonor, a grave case of assault. There is most certainly a sharp distinction between maltreatment and discipline indeed. »

«See? We are able to concur on an issue, I can hardly believe it myself, it is a miracle! Even as I do not think you will ever be able to implement this vision, pertinently laudable yet naively utopic as it is.» Enjolras glowered at him, with one of his stares that could plausibly freeze the Seine down to the very bottom albeit, once more, without returning fire verbally. How magnificent those eyes of ocean, of horizon were, thought Grantaire, how magically expressive. O how desperately the artist wished he were one of the eminent chosen ones which were able to bring them to life with mirth, to lull them to catharsis - turn the storming seas into tranquil forest rivulets.

« Not all violence is equal though.» amended Grantaire «Self-defense exempli gratia»

«Indeed, it most distinctly is. » the other answered begrudgingly, an eon of uncomfortably long silence later, still pacing, bethinking himself at length. Good Lord, thought the artist, he was ghostly pallid, so much so that he Grantaire briefly entertained the notion that all of this might be a green hallucination. «Continuing to eschew the trade of our Lord and Savior Christ, Enjolras?» «What is it with people’s obsession regarding furniture and my use of it to-day?» snapped his muse galled, crossing his arms in front of his chest. «Well-»

«Your answer to your earlier inquiry is trifold. » said he instead, voice trenchant and forceful as always, the most enchanting sound in the universe to the artist under any circumstance «Morals, virtue, calculation. In short: I knew better. A brawl would not have changed the outcome for the better albeit quite possibly for the worse. Furthermore I would have lowered myself to his station. You accuse me of worshipping violence, of glorifying atrocity, calling upon figures of inhumanity in veneration, yet the verity, the reality of the matter is: I deplore violence and cruelty most wholeheartedly, utterly; I will not engage in such sin, such iniquity against humanism when not strictly necessary and ineluctable for the protection and defense of our nation, our people, the weak and disenfranchised, and admittedly, selfishly in protection and defense of those I consider most dear, that is the Amis. Yet even then, when I would have to resort to the sin of violence it shall only be in dire circumstances, upon my hand being forced. Vengeance is a primitive yet primordially human notion. In the end the law must substitute man’s desire for it. Education must instruct their minds upon a proper sentiment. Still where violence as a tool is unavoidable, conscience must carry the burden, as necessity does not excuse immorality. Even a soldier for the people, in times of war or revolution, must be judged by his own conscience instinctively. »

«Oh Enjolras, but thou art the noble spirit of Justice personified, no mere mortal! How might the dross rooted in sin hold up to your moral excellence, your merit and -»

«-Can you not see my blood?! It is very visible even to one in a perpetually intoxicated state. You keep barbing me, ridiculing me thusly calling me Apollo, a God, a deity, a being of immortality -»

«Enjolras you are misunderstanding me – nevermind -  Do pinch your nose more, you are still bleeding amply.»

«Speak plainly for once!» barked the young revolutionary, his irritation obvious «Why are you here? What does my condition matter to you, one way or the other? You have heard enough, I presume, to warrant a great amount of schadenfreude in your cynical heart, enough to tarnish my name, be done with your mockery and be gone. You have much besmirching to do, have you not?»

«Apollo -»

«Enough! Innumerable times I have entreated you not to clepe me thus!»

«Enjolras, do you think me this soulless, truly? When I pleaded to let me do you a service, I was not joking, I was not taunting -»

«How do you expect me to believe you, when all you seem to take pleasure in, it seems, is to drink and jeer my every word? To sneer and deride -» Enjolras felt an almighty biff of vertigo, stumbling mid step, cutting himself off mid word, he was steadied by hands most gentle, the touch so light it could almost be mistaken for a puff of wind, the caress of a down feather, Grantaire snatched them away however, as though he had been horrifically burned immediately upon stabilizing Apollo. He was unworthy of touching a God, of breathing the same air, of existing in the same realm, yet he felt unable to even consider leaving, of taking his gaze away from the awful glory of his sun.

«Ap-Enjolras? Putain de merde, corps de dieu, what’s the matter? Speak to me. Please, why do you refuse to sit down at least? You may chastise me and yell at me all you wish – Lord knows I deserve it - if it should cheer you but **please** do it from a sitting position, I beg of thee!»

«Thank you, Grantaire» Enjolras seemed to speak aloud only with great difficulty, his breathing too, appeared uneven to Grantaire. «Pardon me, I do not know what spell came over me just then»

«Neither do I, Enjolras, except you very nearly fainted on me.» frankly, by now Grantaire was dreadfully frightened and confused. Enjolras was not supposed to be ill or unwell, a God could not take ill, he felt the horizon might come crashing down and the gates to the Underworld open should this impossibility come to pass. «I did not » muttered Enjolras uncharacteristically juvenile, appearing for the blink of an eye as young, painfully young, as he factually was.

«We’ll call it a swoon then, if you prefer?» A familiar piercing glare set him at ease a mite but did nothing to mitigate the intense concernment dragging at his heart. He retreated a couple of steps toward the door, a safe distance, a distance befit one as lowly as him, yet a petulant part of his mind demanded he stay close instead. «Will you be sick? Give me a warning then. You cannot possibly be concussed from a couple of blows …but maybe you can, scrawny and gracile as a reed as you are -» fretted Grantaire. His Apollo’s frame was always lean and delicate but at times it appeared so alarmingly thin, no gaunt, emaciated even, and he seemed oftentimes inordinately tired, the artist worried sempiternally.

«Do not be absurd, Grantaire, of course I will not be sick. Nor did I suffer a concussion.» Still the artist worried over his God but was that not foolish? Worrying, fretting over a deity? He could not help it, mere mortal he was, albeit Enjolras being a God, invincible.

Intellectually, there was nothing to debate, Enjolras, of course, was human - Grantaire knew as much, he was mad but not insane after all. And yet, human Enjolras was not quite. But he was trembling. Trembling as if he were standing in a great snowstorm in mere shirtsleeves, in a room which was fairly humid, the faintest chill of the early spring day inconsequential and should have been contracted by his coat. Yet his tremors had matured into full on shivering.

«Enjolras, what’s the matter? Are you ill? Are you cold?»

The young revolutionary blinked a couple of times, taken aback, Adam’s apple bobbing twice, thrice, thenceforth glaring and standing stock rigid akin to an actual marble statue, deliberately willing his muscles to be dormant contrary to all rules of physiology, petulantly attempting to defy his own body, an action that was indeed very quintessentially Enjolras. «No, (at a loss, he puffed out a pressed exhale, which was to be defined between an exasperated sigh and a somewhat pained, harassed groan, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose, hoping to inhibit his vision from swimming once again yet only worsening his condition) oh for goodness' sake-»

«Let me get you your overcoat then.»

«In Rousseau’s name - Cease to act as though you were my manservant, Grantaire! Is your bottle not lonely?»

«You could not possible suggest I return to it, you of all people? Oh and at present I feel myself more of a nursemaid.»

«Grantaire, I swear I will -» growled the revolutionary splenetically belligerent before guiltily bridling his shamefully mercurial, truculent temper with a couple of deep breaths.

«Do finish that thought, I beg thee, O Glorious Leader» grinned Grantaire suggestively in a vain attempt of alleviate his sensibilities, which confounded and irritated the celibate, virtuous Enjolras «It would be an honor to be punished by Apollo himself» Grantaire did wish he had the fortitude not to play the deplored jester every time Apollo granted him the charity of but one moment of his attention.

«Do you ever hold your tongue?!»

«Alas, it seems I am incapable of that, as of anything other than being useless and cynical – albeit I am occasionally poor at those too, I find. » the artist wished he had the courage to force Enjolras to sit down «You are swaying, do sit down, please. » he wheedled instead although not hopeful in the least Enjolras would actually do so.

«Please leave me be – Leave!» thundered Enjolras, yet the artist was still not intimidated.

«Only if you shall allow me to fetch one of your better halves, the philosopher-doctor that is, and if I shall not find him, I’ll have Joly flap his ailes here in his stead. »

«You are a never ending enigma to me. Go sleep off your absinthe, the vapors do not agree with my stomach, I can smell them, the malodors of you debauch, from where I stand. »

«Oh you are a cruel man. It is fortunate I am most deserving of your ire. Can’t you see? I am as sober as they come! It must be a miracle, or it is your presence - »

« Is there ever a meaning behind your words? Is there a purpose to them? What have I done to earn your perpetual scorn?»

Grantaire was aghast and benumbed, ancient, nameless yet familiar anguish seized his heart, tears sprung to his eyes once more. «You think I scorn you, truly?» Enjolras beheld him with eyes most grave. «Obviously, palpably you do»

«You are mistaken, Enjolras -»

«Well, I truly hope I am, Grantaire. In fact, I suspect I might be. We all err, do we not? I am no exception to this rule. Redemption is my firm belief, I still wish to hold out hope that you can be made to see the momentous import of our cause and that your cynicism will be vanquished yet you saw away at this diminishing glimmer of confidence relentlessly. Your luck is my persistency and this unshakable belief. Even though, this present time, I forbear your presence at our meetings in account of your amity with some of our members and for this sliver of goodwill and hope in your saving grace which is your intellect – at least the part of which you have not yet destroyed by your constant states of intoxication and excess. Furthermore, I feel you harbor faith, faith for something. Unbridled, fierce, pure faith - you may deny it, attempt to suppress it, drink it into submission all you wish, even as I do not know what the object of your devotion is, it is present, and as long as it is I will not dismiss you.» the last sentence was spoken as a promise, an oath, and it sent tingling along Grantaire's spine, dried his mouth as though it had swallowed ash and sadistically jabbed at his heart. The artist was at a loss for words for once, Enjolras too grew silent thereafter, for too long a time before he spoke up once more, his voice was gentle and piano, when its hypnotic music swelled once more, sounding strangely bashful, unsettlingly timid and unsure, yet his tone was kind and sweet, warmer even, perhaps. Grantaire was uncertain as to whether he projected, imagined these latter emotions onto the timbre of his muse's voice or if they were indeed real, for he thought he could hardly trust his senses when it pertained to Apollo, yet there was also what sounded to him a rare undercurrent of melancholia and rumination in the other's inflection, which mostly definitely were.   

«Do listen» he requested hesitantly, gingerly, avoiding the artists' eye, a couple of beats passed before he continued «For I am most grateful all the same for what happened earlier. You -»

It was then that Madame Brassard returned to the room, interrupting whatever Enjolras had intended to express, carrying a tray holding a pitcher of water, a bowl, several rags of linen and a battered old handheld mirror with a slight crack to it. She cleared her throat audibly, «Pardon, messieurs, I see you two are able to play nice with each other after all! The Widow will be surprised, she shall never believe a word of it!» the two young men both faced her chagrined, Enjolras bowed exiguously «Ah yes» he said softly, ignoring the swipe regarding their relationship, or lack thereof.

«Thank you very much indeed, Madame. Your trouble will be reimbursed of course -» «Oh be quiet, Monsieur, you are too good for this purgatory, do dispel that notion, for you are most welcome indeed. There you go.» she said with a suppressed smile playing on her lips stepping forward, yet Grantaire took the server from her with an agile flourish then «You are a saint and a lifesaver, Madame Brassard!» he proclaimed gallantly, and placed the tray, carefully and diligently, on a table, much to her disconcerted curiosity. «That’s how it shall be then.» she shook her head bemused.

«You are a droll young man, Monsieur Grantaire» declared she, pinching the artist’s cheek, who subjugated himself, smirking, to the whims of the old as was proper, and supplemented a fulsome bow to it for effect «Alas, yes I am, a travail I must endure and gladly do - though poor Monsieur Enjolras does not take such enjoyment out of my character»

«As long as you bother to take care of your friend, I do not mind, young man, and will leave you to it. » She departed once more with that, chuckling to herself.

To say Enjolras was dismayed at this turn of events was more a falsehood than a mere blatant understatement, he had stood quietly, with his jaw set, arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes filled with a certain incredulous malice for the duration of this exchange. Once again overtaking the young revolutionary, in reaching for the rags, Grantaire – having fastidiously washed his fingers with one while he had spoken to Madame Brassard - had already begun to wet another with his hands now clean.

«What in the name of the National Convention are you doing?»

«Useless as I am, I am still perfectly capable of wringing out a cloth» commented the artist, angling himself away from Enjolras as in a teasing child’s game, which was quite easy considering he was much more solidly built and approximately five centimeters taller.

«As am I, Grantaire. I do not require nor desire your assistance, I wish not to be served by anyone for that matter! »

«Keep your head down and be still, Enjolras, you are aggravating your nosebleed. » he replied impassively.

«Hand me that cloth at once!» demanded he agitatedly and the artist did, smiling adoringly, the movement thoroughly tender and benevolent, Enjolras’ anger absconded immediately, he glanced up through his fair lashes at Grantaire, however not into his eyes or he would have seen the sincerity in them, before his cherubic visage morphed into a reluctant frown of mistrust, as he pressed the cloth to his nose «What do you want of me?» Grantaire too glowered for an altogether different reason. He should feel offended on his own behalf yet did not, he was distressed at Enjolras’s instinctive suspicion, such a cynical emotion befitted more him than Apollo.

«Nothing» he replied honestly with all the true conviction his lacking heart could muster, yet Enjolras clearly did not believe him. «I want your nose to stop bleeding. That is all. » Grantaire assured kindly, speaking only the unadulterated truth. They regarded at each other for a prolonged moment, ere the blond revolutionary’s blue eyes softened, yet appeared to Grantaire still full to the brim with an agonizing to recognize mélange of sorrow and resignation.

It was, of course, Enjolras who broke this scarce kind of peaceful conjuration, staring blankly ahead at the wall, having come to feel awkward in the other's company. Whilst Grantaire, who longed to care for his muse, to drag him kicking and screaming if need be to Combeferre, yet instead no more than internally swore, like the madman that he was, at his coward's heart for submitting once again to Enjolras' whim and remained likewise silent and inactive, realized that his beloved must be even more unwell than he could bear to admit, for not only did he continue to shiver but seemed to be entirely, therefore worryingly focused on controlling his breathing.  «I think it has stopped» opined the younger man, breaking the silence of no more than a couple of minutes, which had insinuated itself into their midst, stationary like the stifling heat on windless dogs days of high summer in the city. By trial Enjolras removed the cloth to test his theory, his nose had indeed stopped bleeding. Apollo proceeded to turn the rag to a clean corner to wipe at the residue, refusing or being unaware of the gestured offer of a new one by Grantaire. «It has. Fortunately.» Grantaire affirmed, assuaged of some of his worry, content with this development, he threw the rag back unto the tray with a snort «Soap would help» ascertained Enjolras more to himself than the other, tiding himself, «It would sting as well» observed the artist, attempting, forcing himself to speak in his usual sardonic, languid tone.

«Well, at least it has stopped. » said the younger with a shaky sigh of relief. Grantaire gave his beloved a wide berth as he stepped to the bowl to wash his face and watched with apt fascination as the water tainted itself in the morbidly beautiful abstract painting of dancing streaks of the most exquisite shades of red and pink of his Apollo’s essence of life.

Grantaire found that even the most mundane tasks of life appeared of magnificent, ethereal grace when performed by Enjolras. Indeed even his blood appeared a masterpiece of the Gods, an elixir of power and pure pulchritude, unworthy to be seen by wretched mortals such as himself. And yet the derisive Gods who delighted in torturing him allowed him to stand witness to the phlebotomy of one of their kin, the artist’s mind was astir with overwhelming muse and his soul exalted. Apollo’s blood drops were serene dusk sky clouds, as much as they were the hellish horizon on the day of Ragnarok, the sky of apocalyptic Final Judgement, they were buoyant little poppies on a Midi summer meadow (And O how they held him captive, how they beguiled him, how drunk he was on not their Turkish cousins but their native lightsome cheer) and the tokens of martyrs past – their pyres and stigmata -, fiery arrows hailing down upon the enemy as much as the blossoms of love-lies-bleeding or the bridal rose, as rubies in a crown. And yet upon Apollo’s head was no crown, not even one of flowers, myrtle or laurel, for he despised its very concept and needed it not, no adornments, no panoply of wealth for his fundamental glory spoke for itself.

The blood of his God reminded Grantaire of his own damned station, a creature of decay should not stand in the presence of a creature so utterly perfect, celestial, virtuous as Apollo. Grantaire wished to fall before Enjorlas in genuflection, to press his worthless lips to Enjolras’ neatly polished boots, to display in full his total devotion to his angel of virtue, his God of sunlight. He did not care if Enjolras kicked him away, or, the most likely possibility, would draw up or order him to stand and lecture him on the equality of all men, or even turn away with a sneer assuming Grantaire was engaging in some sort of crude joke, some form of mocking buffoonery, for he would finally be contended to have shown his servility, to have been in his rightful place for once  – a poor, worthless, mortal sinner kneeling before his noble God - no matter how brief.

For Grantaire there was no equality amongst men, could never be, for he - his Apollo, his angel, his God, his muse, his beacon in the darkest hour of night, his soul’s only nutrition - would forevermore be exalted to the divine sublime above all else. The artist would be glad to be allowed to grovel at Enjolras’s feet, to lay prostrate before him at his mercy, venerating him freely for all the world to see, proving to his God that he worshipped no one and nothing beside him, to be bathed in his luminous, cleansing aura, even though he did not deserve this redemption, this light, to be so near to Apollo, to earn salvation by being at his disposal. Even his worship was worthless, his devotion too coarse, selfish and lewd. And still he desired nothing more in his lonesome dreams. To serve and worship Enjolras was all he desired, all that occupied his mind.

His spirit still clung to the memory of the singular time, which had occurred on an otherwise dreary December day of the last year, Enjolras had allowed him to hold the door to the Musain open for him, appearing haggard and careworn, weary and harried, arms overflowing with items, the young revolutionary had not only accepted the gesture without scolding but even graced him briefly with his treacly angelic smile for his helpfulness and a shy blush to his cheeks. Now every day Grantaire hoped (in vain, he supposed) to be able to do something, anything to produce an iterance of this magical moment.

His Apollo unbend with a jerk, drawing himself up stiffly, a few runaway tresses bouncing free as he did. Sighing in annoyance Enjolras peered at the mirror at his reflection, his slightly split lip curling in angry displeasure and disdain at something that went far over Grantaire’s understanding, he unbound dexterously the black ribbon holding back his halo of curls and carded his left hand through them in imitation of a comb. Grantaire could not fathom, could not understand what irked his angel. All but a discoloration to the collar of his cravat and shirt was visible and Enjolras made quick, effective work in rebinding the cravat to hide these stains cleverly. Now what remained were the cut on his cheek and split lip, which were barely noticeable.

His pallid cherubic features were cleansed of any blood, immaculate as alabaster, as the snowy marble the artist saw him as having been created from by Mount Olympus’ sculptors of the most virtuoso vocation  – he was blindingly stunning as always - an opinion merely he himself did not seem to share.  «They are hardly distinguishable to anyone not standing in your personal space, Enjolras. I doubt they will. (They should not dare, if they knew what is beneficial to their health, thought he to himself). » 

Apollo scoffed, trying and failing to regather all his curls of spun gold to retie the ribbon, as he seemed too infuriated to concentrate on the action.  

«People tend to stare at me. Continuously. Be it here in Paris or at home in the Provence. » he expounded infelicitously, then paused abruptly,his azure eyes widening ever so slightly in dismay and disbelief,as if he were shocked,confused and embarrassed to have confessed this private sentiment aloud to Grantaire, of all people, as if his words had been an accident for which he might be prosecuted or vilified,simultanously a pensive, perturbed frown appeared but absconded again nearly instantaneously. His muse seemed to recover with headspinning swiftness,long before the unsettled artist had grasped and wrangled words to string into what he had hoped would have constituted an appropriate reassurance, Apollo continued «for reasons I do not quite understand, nor can relate to. » he searched for Grantaire’s gaze, commanding it, the artist thought, like he would any troops marching for him, effortlessly « It is most curious. That is to say rude, ignorant and inconvenient. » Enjolras gave up the herding of his locks, dismayed at them, at the superficiality of society and, it seemed, at all bigotry and ignorance in general. This brief display of adolescent, impatient infuriation was so utterly endearing, so charming and adorable, that Grantaire could not help but simper at it, akin to some silly besotted grisette, despite or especially for its human quality.  «People attach their judgement of their fellow men unto physical appearance – it is a travesty and a curse.» 

«Apollo» chuckled Grantaire incredulous, once again amazed at his sweet angel’s virtue, his purity, his innocence, Enjolras’s lips twitched at the beloathed moniker but spoke no admonishment in retort even as his eyes clouded once more in a prelude to one of their fellow’s thunderstorms of opinion, «With all due respect to your righteous fury – but you are aware the people stare for the find you most beautiful, correct? They mean no insult or harassment, they might not be able to help it, for that matter. You draw gaze like a flower or another beauteous creation of nature such as a gazelle or a well-bred horse, like an artwork in a museum. See, they are admiring you like one might a particularly stunning sunrise. »

«Whether or not I am, (and I see not how I am or how anyone might think thusly), does not matter in the least – it should not matter. » insisted Apollo impatiently, angered, indignant, the foreign enchantment of peaceful companionship had deserted them once more.

«What you call beauty, in your artist’s eye, is an obstacle to me. It would not, cannot indicate worth of my character, my personality, my nature, the weight of the messages I am trying to confer – People stare at my face when they should pay attention to my words. The beauty of a person lays within their convictions, their character thusly the actions arising from them – in the mind, heart and the practices kept when no one but the individual itself is witness, especially those in care of those who might never be able to repay them, advance them  – not in vanity of external appearances, be it physical or in fashion. » Enjolras, gesticulating with his left hand as he was wont to do when speaking, shook his head imperceptibly in thought, his halo shone dazzlingly even in the windowless therefore rather dimly light room, a supernatural gleam – Grantaire was well convinced that his tresses must be like the Biblical Samson’s.

Courfeyrac, who played regularly with Enjolras’ ringlets, braiding and stroking them, running his fingers through them habitually, and Jehan who was permitted to do the same, that is braiding them, on rare occasions, had both indirectly confirmed his perception on them being as otherworldly silky as they looked but he remained in infinite wonder on whether they actually did shine in darkness like a lantern as they occasionally seemed to, which would confirm their otherworldliness once and for all.

«You, the artist, by nature, has a differing view on beauty than I. » the young revolutionary’s eyes, deeply ponderous and solemn, let him appear, as they so often did, an old soul, a being which had experienced a thousand lives already while their fellow was not yet more than a youth, these instances never failed to make the artist feel as if buffeted by the tempest waves, overcome with awe. Apollo himself assumed he was mocking by calling him a God but if only he could see himself through artist’s eyes he would be able to understand how he could see him a deity, an immortal being of light, virtue and might.

«You do seem to feel better, certainly. You are already perfectly by health enough to lecture this wretch once more, if nothing else. » said Grantaire sardonically, teasing, thusly trying his level best not to grin at his angel’s disdainful frown in response to this barb. «The cool water much restored me» answered Apollo noncommittally, his distant, reserved poise reconstituted. He was well aware nausea was akin to the tide, it was irrelevant how he felt presently, a notion he did not deem to express.

«Well, I have idled long enough, please excuse me, Citizen Grantaire. » ejaculated the young revolutionary in a sudden haste and industriousness, posture flawlessly prim anew. Grantaire hurried to rob him of the tray which nearly caused it to fall to the floor, and Apollo to lose his balance, the artist saved the tray along with its contents in the nick of time (some of the water did spill but the bowl, mirror and pitcher remained intact), with the grace of a circus juggler (in his own opinion, at least), and Enjolras himself. Quickly preempting Apollo’s animadvert, he asked coyly «Have you not a people to serve?» Enjolras’ scowl deepened forthwith.  

«Grantaire, quit your mocking.» he reproved, words carrying without rethinking between them, as natural and quotidian as a breath at this point for both. «Not a jest or mockery to be found, Enjolras, I assure you. I beg you to let me amend my unbearableness, my surge upon thy peace. Please let me compensate you for your altruistic tolerance of my pestering existence -» Enjolras had to restrain himself terribly from rolling his eyes, the one habitual action of his since childhood, juvenile as it was, he found most troublesome not to display in public «Keep your dignity, man, have some respect for yourself, quit your absurd tomfoolery and stop debasing yourself!» he castigated.

Having had had entirely enough of Grantaire’s clownery and self-debasement for this day, the revolutionary seized the tray authoritatively and begun to walk off in a crisp pace yet halted for a second, turning to face the artist with one of his exceedingly neutral therefore enigmatic expressions in countenance «Before I forget» he said evenly «Citizen Bossuet recently showed me one of your drawings – one of your street observations, he called them – the one depicting an old man holding a small child’s hand?» Grantaire dreaded, more sure than ever that this must be a nightmare, and could not decide whether he wished to strangle or kiss Lesgle next he spotted him.

«Well» he muttered «My apologies, Bossuet should be ashamed of himself to distress you with something as horrid»

«Horrid?» repeated Apollo displeased «Not at all. Without possessing much expertise on the subject matter, I humbly found it quite extraordinary. The lifelike nature. The manner in which you captured -» «Please God, Apollo dearest, stop!» Enjolras scowled once again, slightly confounded «Have I upset you with my assessment? Combeferre will not be pleased. At times I am not entirely master of my sharp tongue. But you would know best of this. » «No, no, that is not -» «Good. Those are my honest opinions. I despise flattery.»

«I am aware -»

«Why do you not join us outside and see if you find inspiration? I am most certain you will find one thing or another to enrich your portfolio of street observations. » Grantaire, dumbstruck, managed not to answer in timely fashion, Enjolras had already left, vision-esque as he was.  

 

~*~

Enjolras stepped out into the open day a minute later, stuffing his hair ribbon in his trouser pocket; his survey tallied a positive result: the sky was more overcast and the air had cooled but the weather was holding just fine and the square was as bustling yet peaceful as he had left it: Combeferre and Joly were still occupied at their clinic, Feuilly and Bossuet were in conversation with one group of workers, Courfeyrac and Bahorel in discussion with another, Jehan with the women – all of them appeared perfectly content. Mademoiselle Maria Rebecca Musumeci – or Musichetta as her lovers referred to her casually – a veteran midwife and exceptionally proficient apothecary, had arrived and joined Jehan, Combeferre and Joly and was presently examining a young woman’s newborn on a chaise they had hefted outside to act as an examination cot.

Grantaire, to his utter astonishment, had heeded his suggestion, sitting in the light of day absorbed in his art. The coach which had brought his bane had vanished and with it the man which was its cause as if all of this had been but a dream. It was not, unfortunately. He decided to begin his circuit round with Feuilly and Bossuet, the two fellows he was most nervous of facing.

He had no choice and he was not about to lose any more face.

His pathetic feelings did not matter. He found feelings could be obstacles to the path of transcendence. On the topic of Feuilly, Enjolras could never shake off the nagging suspicion that this admirable young man hated him (similarly he felt deeply ashamed for attributing such unkind, dishonorable emotion to such a good hearted, virtuous man) and why should he not? Enjolras had been born into cursed old money robbed from the people, gained by their blood, sweat and tears, snatched from men such as Feuilly doomed to penury, slaves to a grim, merciless system which gagged or destroyed those which it could not grind down, subjugate or manipulate.

The young revolutionary, who already attempted to overthink, weight and measure his every word, his every gesture and facial expression trice felt as if he stumbled from one faux pas into the next in this remarkable workingman’s presence, never quite finding the right words, always afraid to offend, to anger, to upset. He sincerely feared his attempts at connection were perpetually lacking, clumsy, misunderstood, inducing disfavor rather than the opposite, his quest for forgiveness for the sins of his ancestors futile. Feuilly was the People, Enjolras the personification of their oppression. Enjolras would never stop his struggles of proving worthy of his friendship, hoping to build bridges even when he all the while feared himself indign and the endeavor doomed.

His measure of admiration and respect for Feuilly defied even his eloquence and yet his presence filled Enjolras with a pressing, deep seated dread, a helpless sense of shame felt within each bone, a fierce longing for atonement and at the same time a desire for friendship so innocent it was childlike in its flame, but torturous for it was caught in a Limbo, a knife hovering just above the jugular. Whistling the first couple of notes of the La Marseillaise had Robespierre careering to his side in an instant, wagging his tail excitedly, eternally loyal and loving eyes beaming up at him. Burying his fingers in the cottony, sun warmed fur and ruffling it gave him fragment of a feeling of stability, grounded him, calmed him, «Heel» he ordered, and ‘Pierre, as always, obeyed, following him faithfully, keenly, eyes alert, keeping close enough that his pelage brushed Enjolras’s trouser legs upon each step. If only humans were more like dogs, pondered the young revolutionary, sadly, wistfully. A good master never had to fear losing his dog’s love. It was a simple affection which only gave and hardly took.

Some people were prone to assume he did not like animals for they lacked reason but the truth of the matter was he loved animals, at times better than humans, adored their pure, uncomplicated natures, their indomitably fierce loyalty and straightforward companionship. Animals were unconcerned with the intricacies of social discourse and etiquette, unconcerned with physical appearances, had no expectations in these areas. As much as he venerated his People, the Amis, there were bleak days were Enjolras felt himself drown as though the burden of responsibility and duty he himself had placed upon his shoulders were a metal weight chaining him, dragging him into the depths of the ocean, thrown overboard by his own hand. Not that he had ever intended to become the so called leader of their little society, in fact he still did not define himself as such, not that the Amis seemed to care much for semantics on this matter. The more he denied his role the more they ignored his objections.

Their first official meeting, -which had concerned itself with inner societal structures, positions, policies, proceedings, statutes etc. -, had lasted late into the night, to around half past three in the morning, when just as they had been preparing to leave Bahorel and Bossuet had come up with the demand of an anonymous poll to anoint a leader, which Enjolras had rebuked as a violation of the very concept of a society of equals. He had been overruled within a heartbeat, yet he stubbornly pleaded his case insisting rightly that more than half of them were drunk, as they had been celebrating the birth of their group for close to an hour at this point, yet no one was discouraged and a ballot was set up.

Not that, in his opinion, even discounting the drunkenness in most fellows present and late hour, this would have been a representative vote considering his two dearest bosom friends were allowed to cast their votes along with the others, and  while he was certain Combeferre could be trusted not to vote for him out of friendship alone, he was not so sure about Courfeyrac, who, bless his beautiful spirit and tremendous heart, had displayed all his indicative mischievousness and telltale zest at the prospect.

Thusly his appointment had been nemine contradicente. Sans the one wine stained slip of paper with the word ‘Apollo’ scribbled on it, which had been declared void but not before serving as a source of grand entertainment for all but Enjolras himself who suffered its due of embarrassment both for himself and vicariously for the drunkard which had smuggled it in. Mysteriously no one was entirely sure (or swore they were not) when and how Grantaire managed to participate considering he had been decreed none eligible to vote due to severe intoxication, apathy and an earlier attempt at placing a dozen or so votes with Enjolras’s name on them in the hatbox they had converted into a ballot box, especially as following this exclusion the carouser had had mostly slept through the procedure.

Enjolras, convinced the others were playing some sort of elaborate prank on him (stranger things have happened, even without copious amounts of alcohol involved as it were), had insisted on a second referendum with the same result – and another slip with ‘Apollo’ written on it, this time with a matching sketch of the Greek deity in question holding a French flag aloft. How? Enjolras knew not, he still did not, no one did for that matter. Even though by the end of the second ballot Grantaire had had awoken, Jehan still had his intrigue disappointed when the wine cask refused to impart him with the methods of his magic tricks, even though there was a high plausibility that the sot likely could not remember said methods at all rather than obeying some sort of magicians’ code of silence.

The drunkard had remained suspiciously quiet, drawing and continuing to stare at him with what Enjolras felt an expression torn between absolute bliss and complacency, grinning broadly, oafishly at his every move. The third vote had ended ditto, by that point he had assumed that if it had been a joke they would have grown wary of their antics and their repeated assurances of integrity and honesty had eventually worn him down, thusly he had had to bow to the voice of the people. Albeit, when they would not stop persisting once sobriety had returned to them by their next meeting, he had been adamant on implementing certain measures such as monthly ballots, a grievance letterbox and a specific bi-weekly point of order at their meetings which were devoted to holding review of Enjolras’s performance  - to a general consensus of either bemused or concerned disbelief.

Well, he did propose Combeferre for the position (which should technically not exist in the first place) at least thirty-two times more or less subtly in a span of a month, until he realized that all of the Amis were quite adapt at what he loved to refer to as ‘selective hearing’ (which at least partially refuted any claim of his being some sort of Republican pied piper). If no one paid any heed to his obvious reluctance he might as well embrace his role wholly yet on his own terms.

The Amis were an egalitarian democracy, it was his task to ensure no member was uncomfortable with their state of affairs, felt vulnerable or burked in their midst. His veneer of invincibility, of otherworldly self-possession had this very purpose, he could not ask the Amis to entrust themselves into the hands of a cowardly, egotistical weakling. He was aware of his modest skills in delegating and leading, of his talent for oration, yet he was even more acutely aware of his many personal shortcomings specifically in relation to companionship, such as his lack of social graces, his quick temper and sharp tongue, his austerity, lack of spontaneity, introverted, sober, unsmiling demeanor, his binary rigidity in regards to bourgeois frivolities which he knew could appear more patronizing and arrogant than he meant it to be, reticence, teetotalism and chastity.

When the daunting burden of leadership, the safety and welfare of his comrades beset him, when the intricacies of new friendship confounded, overwhelmed and hectored him, than it was the combination of them and the exemplary function they required that kept him awake many a night as if under siege. Now with their society in its infancy he could allow himself even less weakness, nevermore a period of respite. The debt of egregiously fortunate birth into ill-begotten, shameful wealth, which was an onerous debt he owed to the people of France and the debt to the Amis, who had entrusted their faith, wellbeing and abilities into the embrace of their society.  The twenty-four hours of the day were never enough, his utmost efforts never quite adequate, his ailing body and mind continually failed in resilience and perseverance, his forms of sociability and attempts at conviviality dismal.

Any notion of failure, of any faction beneath perfection frightened him, enslaved him to excel. Leisure, something he had never been friendly with to begin with, had become an impossibility to his own mind. He admired every single one of the Amis, he loved, respected and esteemed them with all his heart and soul, yet it did not change the fact that he still was an apprentice in the terms of trust, of which he was aware, was an injustice, an ingratitude towards them, yet if only they knew how odiously slow old wounds healed, how sedulously he worked on searing them closed, only for them to rear their ugly heads anew when he assumed to have tamed them.

Trust did not come freely to him, it never had, it probably never would. He was not Courfeyrac or Jehan. Indeed it was this selfish anxiety which consumed his thoughts daily, paranoid to lose the Amis’ favor, faith and respect, to disappoint them, fail the People of France, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, dishonor his mother’s legacy, her memory. If he would have to choose a term to describe his existence it would be ‘Sisyphean’, this was not a complaint but merely non evaluative observation. He did aspire and labor, every moment of every day, sleeping or awake, to be worthy of the hope the People of France placed in him, worthy of the credence, estimation, trust and friendship the Amis were willing to gift him, even as he was skeptical of and confused by the latter, as he could not fathom the reason they enjoyed his company at all – for he found himself morose, dull, unlikeable, impersonal, domineering and dogmatic.

He was perpetually lacking in one discipline or another, perpetually chasing his image of perfection in service of Patria, the Amis, his education and his own self. His sense of perfectionism, which hounded him to exhaustion and beyond, was a sea serpent which swallowed all in its path, he felt unable to remit himself of his compulsions, nothing could be cut to relieve himself some stress and pressure. He did not deserve nor had he earned such relief, not e’er the French people were delivered to a just, prosperous Republic could such a thought be even entertained.

He could not neglect his studies nor his intellectual pursuits either, for while compared to the liberation of his people he could not care less for his grades in Roman Law, he still could not bear anything other than peak achievement. He had been ranked in the top ten of the end of year student rankings every year since he started attending the Sorbonne, yet this had been meaningless to him, infuriating, even caustic, as he had managed the highest rank only once and had fallen behind the best five since - he considered this an especially humiliating failure. Distinct proof that one could very much dread an irrelevant piece of paper. Memento mori, to him meant to fight this mortality and its restrictions on body and mind without pity, whereby the people of France shall be delivered to the brighter morrow they deserved. He felt guilt gnawing at how long he had indulged his selfish weakness.

One bleeding nose had him dawdle lachrymosely, lazily away precious minutes, a disgrace. He longed to punish himself, although he already felt as if he dwelled in a constant state of flagellation, of penance, another indication of his maledict self-centeredness, it had become just another indulgence he could not tolerate. These days he could hardly tolerate his own self anymore, work alone helped ameliorate this condition. The People of France could not wait for him to finish his self-mortification. Presently he lacked the time, the energy, the vim to think of another way to macerate himself, show his penitence, atone.

Enjolras valued, craved, existed on rationality, order and logic, yet his mind was a threatening labyrinth of thorn bushed ravines constructed in bricks made of his irrational neuroses and absurd anxieties in which he had lost his path some time ago, having spent years wandering alone in the pitch blackness, he had been rendered its prisoner. He dreaded his heart, its random base yearnings and desires, the pain of its memories, the vulnerability and sentimentalism it cursed him with, its chaotic nature, and he feared, detested the intensity of his emotions which were wild, immortal, deplorable beasts he kept caged, bridled, shunned because he could not otherwise handle them, a necessary sacrifice. In an infinite circle dance his thoughts raced, nigh impossible to placate, the malevolent voices perpetually blaring, scolding, refusing to be quieted unless he controlled his body as he did he schedule.

Unless he worked night and day, unless he purged himself and fastened, punished himself, unless he excelled. Was he mad? No, he could not be. Yet he feared he was, mad as his father claimed his mother had been. He was afraid, terribly afraid of it, a visceral fear, of being found mad, of being carted off to one of the countless inhuman Hells on Earth they referred to as insane asylums where the ill and unfortunate were chained, maltreated, hidden away from the eyes of a world (except when they were paraded like circus animals to a group of medical students) which viewed them with disgust and dread, left to waste away, their supposed caretakers barely able or willing to conceal their hatred, their holier-than-thou contempt, lavishing in their false sciences which served but their own and society’s haughty prejudices.

The same ignorant men, he thought with rabid disdain, with his own angry contempt, who would praise his perfectly Hellenistic skull as a prime example of a superior European man of intellect, character, virtue and pedigree, or the skull of his mother, would they view her portraits, as a prime example of the female ideal perfection, of virtue, beauty and intelligence, would no doubt scramble to find excuses and denial upon learning of her supposed madness and suicide. His craving for control, for order, for perfection did not make him insane, it rendered him a responsible human being, a good citizen, did it not? Why would, could no one understand?

Why would Combeferre not see that without these thoughts he would not be able to handle all which was required of him, how could  he not comprehend that this was the only way Enjolras could look at himself in the mirror, was able to find even the semblance of temporary restfulness? His debt to the France people was so colossal that this was the least he could do – how could he ever deliver them without his suffering?

Were states of pristine perfection and utter control so much to ask for? Why could he not achieve it? Why did he have to be so weak, lazy and useless? How could he have lost control like this today?

His life was structured, organized to a tee, he detested chance and chaos, yet life seemed to him akin to sand on a beach in his grasp, akin to a colony of ants, impossible to tame, impossible to contain, perpetually beyond his control regardless of his painstakingly precise plans, of his toils, of his prudence - and he despised it, abhorred disorder with every fiber of his being, it distressed, afflicted, grieved and infuriated him, drove him forlorn and anxious. He had to overcome his indulgent nature, to deliver himself to a more sublime state.

Contrite, he swallowed painfully several times, ignoring it all. He had to work, had to serve, had to atone. Ignored the noveau wave of nausea, of dizziness, the alternatingly dull, throbbing and stabbing ache reverberating from the back of his skull to behind his eyes, the chills groping at him, pins and needles sensation across his skin, the brutally feral cantering quality of his heart palpitations, the leaden weight of his limbs contrasting with his lightheadedness, the cramping emptiness of his desperate stomach, the refusal of his breath to press deep enough into his lungs, the recurring blurred vision and the flashing bright dots of light and colors in his field of vision, in zigzag lines or wound like worms, which he was unable to blink away. He ignored it all, mastered his body, wrestled it to his will once more and wandered towards the two young men, answering inquiries and exchanging pleasantries with the men and women who intercepted him, taking his time with each of them. Indeed, none of them seemed to notice or were too polite to inquire of his state, Enjolras was glad of that. No more distractions.

As he had stated before: He did have a people to serve, to liberate.

 

~*~

Combeferre spectated his young friend’s every movement with wary providence. He had let ‘Pierre go more than gladly, for at least the creature could provide stability and comfort, when he could not, to his full potential. Even as his young friend stood, in his usual rigid, prim stance with his back to him, in a deliberate attempt to shun his gaze and avoid his attentions, he was able to read Enjolras without any difficulty. When one knew a soul from the cradle onward, he supposed, such a feat was all but child’s play.

To him the other was an open book, despite being a remote mystery to the world at large. Every gesticulation, his entire bearing just infinitesimally differing from their normal expression for his fraternal eye to notice and be keenly alert to their fellow’s deteriorated state. His usual passive stratagem of letting his young friend come to him had failed calamitously once more and he more than dreaded the ineluctably horrid consequences, not for his own but for Enjolras’s sake. Once more did not deceive himself with naïve notions of a lenient ending, perhaps merely retained tentative hope the inevitable collapse would not occur before he could provide an intervention in a private, secure environment. He chastised himself internally for his grave miscalculation, an unnecessary gamble on his friend’s, his younger brother's wellbeing.

After all he had, of course, known of his friend’s condition for weeks pre and then post their trip, nor had he ever been fooled as to the fact that Enjolras had had again struggled with his disordered eating more severely than usual for quite some time this spring. The gloom of the anniversary of his mother’s death had already hung above his young friend’s consciousness for weeks ahead of their journey. This timing naturally had caused him to fret, considering his endeavors in helping his young friend had unfortunately come to little or no fruition prior to their journey. They had discussed the matter, or he at least made attempts to do so, but Enjolras had retreated into his pain and mere words had not dissuaded him off his familiarly treacherous path.

These rare times in which his young friend’s mind barricaded itself of any rhyme or reason, any words of advice and any struggle of persuasion only happened once in a while yet were ever so catastrophic in their consequence. During these periods he was even to Courfeyrac and himself unreachable. He had learned to recognize and prepare for these hazardous phases but in the haste and bustle of daily life had underestimated this particular one to the utmost. He should have suspected that when Enjolras had had eaten with them, to lull him into a false sense of security and conjure no worry, no doubt, he had simply purged himself afterwards, thusly keeping both façade and fast, which was not even a new form of cunning, that, in fact it was one of his oldest tricks, which he felt a veritable moron not to have seen through on the spot.

Early spring was infinitely tainted in his young friend’s mind by the faithful resurgence of acute grief, which akin to the flower buds sprung to life from hibernation, ever present but dulled then with the arrival of April flaring dramatically to beset him. Furthermore, Combeferre was well aware that being within his mother’s family was a source of significant stress to his young friend for multiple reasons which, interlinked as mind and body were within him, held a very real danger of physical decline as well. Illness of various degrees of severity tended to follow these visits, as did relapses into especially brutal self-abnegation and harm.  Nevertheless, stubborn to the extreme as he was, Enjolras had reiterated with unshakeable insistence, that the trip take place, that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself and rejected the offers of both Combeferre and Courfeyrac to join either with their families.

Whilst he was always welcomed, cherished with sincerely heartfelt affection and joy into both Courfeyrac’s and his own family as if he were their own flesh and blood - countless days, summers and holidays spent together, having been educated together, all these years of intimate familial closeness having forged this sort of bond even with their parents and other senior relatives -, he continually asserted his refusal to interlope and do instead his blood dictated duty, even as the trepidation of having to spend his particular date in midst his mother’s presence and her family’s well-meaning yet woefully, haplessly inadequately prepared, either overly acquiescent or willfully ignorant arms, had rendered him even more sullen and taciturn as they had neared his maternal grandparents’ estate. As they had parted upon reaching his drop-off destination, Enjolras had held unto Combeferre for just a bit too long in their embrace, refusing to let go for a solid two minutes in estimation.

Immediately he had inquired naturally, offered to take him along once more or at least to accompany him inside and stay for a while, but his young friend, ever selfless, had merely replied by fixing him with his melancholic blue eyes, shaking his head barely noticeably, wishing him a ‘Happy Easter’, then squeezing his hand in wordless reassurance which he had chosen to believe rather than question and reminding him to deliver the season’s greetings to his family, as Combeferre had kissed his forehead tenderly, before turning away with slumped shoulders. He remembers how his young friend had rushed into their arms with a tired smile at their reunion, held his hand for most of their way to Paris and how his almost palpable exhaustion had caused him to fall asleep as soon as Courfeyrac’s elation had settled down. Guilt gripped his heart a little tighter.

How could he have been this remiss in his duties? As selfish as it made him he wished this morning to end so he could correct his mistake and give all the care he could and more.  A week before their trip a conversation on Enjolras’s discontentment, one unkind remark he had made to Grantaire in the heat of discussion and his purging had turned into the sole full blown argument they had ever managed to find themselves in, which had ended with his young friend storming out of their apartment slamming the door with such furious force it had almost wrecked at the hinges.

This utterly uncharacteristic reaction should have been further clue to his state of mind, it had been many years since Enjolras had last run off during an argument, no one, neither his father nor any stranger, not even Grantaire has ever been able to procure such a tidal wave of emotion other than his maternal uncles and grandfather. He had been so genuinely shocked himself that he had needed an entire minute to compose himself before bounding after him, finding him and Robespierre, who was desperately trying to console his master, sitting in the little park around the corner, on the grass by a statue of Saint Sebastian, arms wrapped around his knees, face hidden away, a posture painfully reminiscent of his young friend’s childhood sorrows, of many such a moment before, barely able to contain an onslaught of tears until he felt Combeferre’s presence, his caress through his locks. Apologizing to him in a broken whisphered mantra, as tears meandered down his cheeks soundlessly before sobs choked out his voice, reverting Combeferre’s mind back to the one deeply fearsome instance in which he had persuaded Enjolras out of committing suicide.

His young friend had only been fourteen years old then and it had been neither the first nor the last crisis of similar kind. Or of the panic which had gripped him in that harrowing moment he had found Enjolras as a younger youth with his wrists cut, in puddles of blood, unconscious and face to face with Death, that damned letter addressed to Courfeyrac and him beside the bathtub neatly, the year following. By the statue on that day in the not so distant past he settled down by his beloved little brother, cradling him close for what seemed like hours, the world around them vanishing, entirely inconsequential, until it ceased to exist. Time seemed to have reversed then stopped for them once again during that instant. The recollections of these moments and other such moments, which were tragically quite numerous, such as the remembrance of the many hours he had he had spent nursing his physically and mentally ailing friend, of the smiles which had become rarer by day since their boyhood, of their adventures together then, intensified his yearning to let go of all duty and reason and march Enjolras home this very instant.

He adored France and her People, the Amis, the future they envisioned and forged together but his brothers, his little brothers, he worshipped beyond proper reason, caution and all which was and should be sacred to a man such as him as devoted to the intellectual pursuit of a balanced equilibrium. How could he not be of the headless passion which was so foreign to his very being when glancing upon Courfeyrac and Enjolras, they often randomly seemed reverted back to mere children?

Enjolras, shy, delicate, sickly, eyes gigantic ponds of blue, sad and innocent yet hiding the fiercest of will and intellect, which always seem to peek out from under his long fair lashes and implausibly massive lion’s mane of curls, observing quietly, a heart and mind four seizes too big for a creature as frail, yet brilliantly selfless, courageous and forthright.

Courfeyrac, gangly as a half grown wolf cub, ravenous for life, freckles which seemed to disappear and reappear between seasons mysteriously, brave to a fault, the most cheerful, optimistic person he has ever met, so stunningly imaginative, creative, curious and loving.

An especially cherished memory recalled at will, in times such as these aids him in staying collected and sober minded. He was in dire need of it.

In his mind, there they are together many a year ago on a summer’s day, Courfeyrac’s ever busy mouth smeared with wild berry juices, giggling, as he feeds some blackberries and cherries to Enjolras. His heart sings in his chest like a fulfilling aria of brotherly pride, delight and satisfaction, his smile is wide as he watches them - then and now in memory -, popping one berry into his mouth too. They are in their open shirts, which hang loose, and their riding breeches, dripping wet from their dips into the waters, their clothing is grass and earth stained, the air is pregnant with the scent of wild herbs, dolce with lime and lemon blossoms and lavender, a warm zephyr cocoons them rustling the trees around them, the natural rhapsodic noise of the land and the trees, the insects and birds give a faint cantata to the thicket as they lounge lazily on a quilt under the shadow of a great canopy of trees by their favorite lake, their ponies grazing nearby equally peacefully. He is supposed to be the adult, as he is always sternly instructed to be, yet he cannot help but laugh with them, monkey around with them, play to his heart’s content, bask in their presence.

Enjolras’s  lovely soprano squeaks up joining in Courfeyrac’s giggling, who is positively preening as he always does if he only so much as manages to tickle the faintest inkling of a smile out of their little stoic friend, as they rush into the water once more, holding hands, laughing.

Then when they tire of swimming, climbing, hunting for anything of interest and playing games, they lay sprawled together like a litter of puppies, Courfeyrac, his head leaning against the side of his chest, is singing old folk songs, studying the few smudged fleecy clouds visible between the foliage, as a sleepy Enjolras, enchanted by an ordinary ladybird trekking over his hands, drifts between napping and resting, head in his lap, wholeheartedly content, body and mind in a complete surrender of relaxation, relishing in their touch, in the tranquility.

He reads to them a bit between adventuring and resting, makes sure they drink enough refreshing mint tea, wipes Enjolras’ hands and mouth clean, clucky as he is, yet fails to catch Courfeyrac to do the same to him (the chase has Enjolras in stitches), who, a storyteller by blood, soon forgoes books and invents their own wild tales along with some local legends delighting in their every reaction to his yarns. Later he cuts the pieces of Picodon and Roquefort cheese, pain au levain bread and Saucisson aux olives sausage, and they pair them with artichoke hearts and dried tomatoes. They lunch under the welcoming glory of Provence sun thus, a simple meal yet a feast. For dessert Courfeyrac triumphantly digs out some smuggled in nougat out of his saddlebag handing it to Combeferre to be divided equitably between them. They stay until just before nightfall, only riding back, mindful to be punctual for dinner and mirthful in spirit, in the dew of late dusk amidst the fireflies, cicadas and crickets, when clusters of a few stars already spike the changing watercolor sky.

The weight of the world is not on their shoulders yet, it will be a long time until it will be, society’s chains could not reach them there in their haven. They are children – they are ange, étoile and hibou not Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre the student revolutionaries - and the world and its troubles are far as the hills and plains appear to them, they are to them unreachable as the sky above them. And for these brief moments, fortresses against this world they were and are even in memory, even Enjolras is free of his demons and sorrows, allowed to be the child he is: utterly carefree, blithe and untamed.

He did long for these simpler times, secretly, particularly on days such as these. Yet he, somewhat reluctantly, forced himself back to the present moment, to mentally prepare himself, so that he may be set to handle any eventuality. The guilt and frustration he felt would not help Enjolras recover, neither would they solve any of the pressing issues at hand or do him any good personally. A drawn out sigh escaped him unwittingly.

A long, punitive , arduous couple of hours lay ahead of them, of that he was certain.

 

~*~

Unbeknownst to the medical student, it was the poet Jehan Prouvaire - who happened to have the ability to feel his friend’s distress and frustration keenly deep within like a low jolt of electric current, before it ebbed off and nestled in with the countless emotions surging through him at any given moment akin to the dull throbbing of a healing wound - not his fellow physician Joly, who happened to take note of his frowning mien lost in reverie this time, as the other was too occupied with his willful mistress Musichetta, «Monsieur Joly » she had bespoke, in a tone entirely detachedly matter of fact, which was her habit, as she never addressed the young man with anything more emotional than prosaic civility «At your service, Mademoiselle.» he answered at once with a smirk, which carried into his playfully goading tone «Might you please, at your convenience, put your expertise to use here. Listen to this infant’s breathing, if you will, and give your opinion, I seem detect a stridor in its respiration. »

Smiling his most beguilingly winsome smile, quite purposefully, at her as he ambled to her side, in his besotted haste even forgetting about his cane, he earned himself a coldly dismissive glare in return, only causing him to simper at her more endearingly if considerably more cheekily. Joly begun to examine the child while asking and listening carefully to the mother’s and Musichetta’s anamnesis. This interaction was a distinct comprehensive summary of the game which was at the core of their relationship.

She did not wish to have herself diminished, become enslaved as her gender was fated to and he, infatuated and headstrong in his pursuit, took wicked amusement in provoking her with his deliberately, teasingly inordinately gallant, generous and courteous wooing, whether in public or private. Merely partially in jest he would ask her hand in marriage every day anew only to be rejected or ignored by her time and time again without ever taking insult or becoming discouraged. When she finally snapped and proceeded to slap him for his perceived and occasional actual impertinence, he merely smiled adoringly, taking the exquisite hand which had struck him just then, kissing it reverently and if she would not allow it, the hem of her dress.

Despite outer appearances she guarded well within herself the secret that she had, in truth, utterly fallen for the young man’s character, his temerity, intellect and tenacity even if she refused to admit as much to anyone other than the sister she was closest to and her dearest group of friends. At times she was unwilling to admit the fact to herself even. Unfortunately her family was growing ever more impatient for her to capitulate to his courtship (they were, of course, unaware of their already existing liaison), give into his quest for matrimony, no matter how much the very notion turned her stomach or her repeated plainly vocalized repudiations on this issue, after all they considered her, at the comparatively young age of twenty four, an old maid fated to spinsterhood should marriage not materialize soon.

It was not Joly she rejected but the notion of Church ordained subjugation until death doth you part. She loved her professions and was good at them. The way Joly glanced at her whenever she held an infant betrayed his true desires, unfortunately she was not ready to be locked inside a life of mother and wife just yet. Even her father, traditional, hard-headed, stoic and prudential, had become rather fond of Joly not only as a candidate for the title of son-in-law but as a man, disregarding his habitual prejudices of their cultural differences entirely, which did continue to astound her, and despite his disability, likely for it was an acquired one in infancy instead of a heredity and being otherwise of excellent health.

Joly, while not a Sicilian or even an Italian (That was however agreeing with her, she most definitely preferred the French menfolk to that of her ancestral homeland), did fulfill all the other requirements a father could conceivably envision for a choice of husband for his (last unmarried) daughter. He was of a well-to-do, bourgeois family of good standing and stellar reputation, surmised of doctors and architects, had a stable, well esteemed, well earning choice of future occupation, was learned, well-read, of a pleasant character, staid virtue and a Republican. Unlike her family she lacked trust. Not in her Joly specifically but in men in general. A suitor’s or beau’s interests differed pronouncedly from that of a husband in the end. Courtship could be more of a bemusing masquerade ball but matrimony laid bare all deceptions with little contingency of escape. Was she immune to the charm of his handsome countenance, his cheerful spirit, his considerate touch, the placid comfort of his embrace, the tenderness of his speech? 

No, he had already captured her irrevocably, she was merely holding defiant, not yet willing to submit to his luring attempts at domestication. His persistence never ceased to amaze her, and maybe she craved precisely this pursuit which she feared would die out once he knew he had secured her as his prize catch. «You had no need of my opinion, Mademoiselle. » he commented with frank pride aloud upon finishing his examination «Naturally, your assessment was entirely correct.» «Croup» she stated not inquired, «Indeed» Joly replied, addressing both the mother and Musichetta «A mild bout, fortunately. »

«So it is not diphtheria? Are you sure?» the mother hastily interjected, nerves and worry plain in her eyes, Joly took her hand in a properly brief, modest gesture of comfort and reassurance «No Madame, I am positive. The term more often used for your son’s condition is ‘faux-croup’ to differentiate it from the croup of diphtheria. Diphtheria presents with more severe symptoms such as heavy swelling of the neck, a mass covering the tonsils, swollen lymph nodes and a high fever.» he consoled gently.

«There’s been such a wave of it recently, I was afraid he might have it too!», «I will not blandish, Madame, it is not helpful nor is it a doctor’s nature. Croup is not entirely harmless and has to be well monitored but by the grace of natural order it is not as dangerous as diphtheria or scarlet fever and here it is a mild bout at that. » «He is a strong boy» attested Musichetta with a gentle arm around the young mother’s slender shoulders «With care and prayer he will recuperate fully.» the young mother crossed herself «God willing.»

«There, there. Now, let’s see to it that God is not the sole variable» said Joly sympathetically yet in a firm scientists’ manner, as he placed the child – which was placid and cooing in his hold - in his mother’s arms tenderly, sharing a meaningful glance with his lover «A positive attitude in a caretaker never hurt a recovery.» The medical student and the midwife then they fell into an easy, well-practiced tandem routine of advice and orders on the child’s care and treatment. The young mother was soon mobbed by a barrage of wisdom from the older women, while Joly and Musichetta shared another glance undisturbed. Jehan Prouvaire, whose sensibilities were quite convoluted and confused to-day, overstimulated by the masses of people’s and his friends’ conflicting set of emotions, was actively trying to ignore the ominous gut feeling of worry which he had carried with him since dinning with Enjolras (who had, as so unsettlingly often, neither eaten nor drunk anything, merely set at the table with them conversing, looking beyond exhausted all the while), Courfeyrac and Combeferre the other evening, could not help the tiniest knowing smile from gracing his lips as he watched, out of the corner of his eye, his friend Joly kiss his beloved’s hand yet it thinned out as he glanced back at the other medical student’s frown for a second.

Seeing the little poet then become distracted by conversation once more Joly seized the moment to sneak around him adroitly to startle his favorite lyricist with a firm, prolonged bisou to his cheek, discharging a multitude of delighted giggles and jaunty snickers from some of the girls around them. Musichetta rolled her myrrh brown eyes at this unfettered display of fraternal passion embarrassed and amused in equal measure.

At this point in time she should have grown to expect this type of conduct, seeing how some of gentlemen of the Amis Society had little restrained in showing their close bond to each other in quite unusual ways, repeatedly, loudly and frequently publicly. It was strangely, persuasively endearing. Joly, Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Jehan were the main instigators and culprits, with Bossuet and even usually quiet Feuilly joining in once enough alcohol had been consumed. «Keeping my word without prompt, my little Byron» Joly crooned as he separated them than broke into a laugh over the poet’s expression, which was simultaneously bewildered, abashed, flattered and mightily amused «Joly you are an awful -» Joly mimed pressing his hand over his heart as if in agony  «No, no my heart cannot take your sedulous flattery!» but his smile morphed into one so earnest and sweet that the poet could not be cross with him at all, quite the contrary «Charmer» «Cease lest Mademoiselle Musumeci -» Joly grinned in Musichetta’s general direction, who yet ignored her lover resolutely, keeping his tone low under his breath «Become jealous of our special breed of love and throw me over for one less sentimental» Jehan decided to let the doctor taste his own medicine and show said love by hugging him, genuinely fond and smitten he was, before the medical student could escape to swagger back to his spot.

«True love cannot be hidden nor tamed» the Romantic proclaimed dreamily «It is and should remain a wild thing while still being pure and tender»

«Hear, hear» acceded Joly, pecked him on the cheek again and went to sit back down.

~*~

«Citizen » avouched Enjolras, pressing his black umbrella back into Feuilly’s hands, the action one of mansuetude, yet the words were spoken with an air of utmost stalwart finality « Please, I fear I must insist» The clouds which had rung in daybreak and dotted the morning sky had built up erelong in greater force by noon, proceeding to cursorily balloon into gloomy nimbus clouds by the conclusion of the rally - which had proved a great success – until their looming threat had disgorged itself by the stroke of half past three in the afternoon once the Amis, having finished the clearing work and gathering their equipment and belongings in timely caution, had sought shelter in the café to regroup and embark together to the Corinthe for their planned debriefing. This plan had been agreed upon in advance, out of mindful prudence, so as to not overstay their welcome at the unfamiliar turf of the Café Tisserin.

Yet following some notable time of holding out, the intense rain and growling thunder still had not abated. This happenstance prompted lively re-discussion on their next course of action, in which it was agreed upon to go through with their march homeward in spite of the weather’s caprices. These interlocutions had also found a troublesome yet unsurprising shortage of umbrellas. Courfeyrac - who habitually derisively decried them as ‘way too English’ - in his regular serendipity profited bounteously from Combeferre’s foresight concerning the recent weather conditions and found little gripe with enjoying the dry foot provided by the so despised English contraption, Bossuet found himself in similar utterly unusual luck as Joly, in his fretful nature had, of course, brought another umbrella, independent Musichetta had brought her own, and so had Enjolras, who had bestowed, wordlessly and without hesitancy, the fortune of it unto Jehan and a qualmishly sheepish Feuilly, who had in his meekly diffident manner tried to express rash objections to this gesture, attempts which had been cut short by Enjolras’s above words, then effectively ended by their leader’s donning of his coat and hat, a brusque taking leave, Robespierre on his heels.

The ensuing sharp chiding but at its core deeply worried look by Combeferre had not found its addressee, for he had already stepped out of the café door, eliciting an exasperated sigh quite similar to that of a sorely afflicted school master. Before the young revolutionary’s exit however, gentleman he was, he had taken the time to bow to Musichetta grandiloquently, exorbitantly politely excusing himself and apologizing expressively to her in her native tongue (in which he was effortlessly, eloquently fluent) for his lack of tact, she waved away his words magnanimously while placing on her demure bonnet over her ebony curls, smiling tightly, worriedly albeit genuinely affably, now as concerned for the young man’s wellbeing as the others were, as she had come to care rather deeply for the young man, as Enjolras (and Jehan) just invited a such irrationally fond, protective sisterly sentiment even against her better volition and judgement.

The artist Grantaire, mostly unnoticed, slunk away in said Chief’s wake, clutching his worn leather satchel which protected his utensils and drawing pad, seemingly in a dream state, an aftershock of his alcohol consumption, lured by his departed muse, the will-o'-the-wisp, uncaring the weather conditions or even aware of the rest of the world, mumbling to himself about Apollo’s immunity to rain, a god amongst mortals, bringing to their knees Zeus’s wrathful servant the Aeolus, the Anemoi and Harpyiae and enslaving in particular Boreas.

And Bahorel laughed boisterously at them all, tongue in cheek, for making such unmanly ado about a few unusually waspish raindrops, strolled forth, amicably bumping into Feuilly in play-fighting manner with a wink, Feuilly, good sport he was held steady, even shoving and grinning back, shoulders taut, Bahorel’s bear hand petted the back of the other’s head then encircled his neck in a sign of rough affection, Feuilly smiled up at his friend in shy, jocular sanguinity, but did not get to comment before Bahorel pulled his cap over his eyes and went on his merry way, guffawing, in conduct just shy of beating his chest akin to a silver backed gorilla, to follow their Chief and his friend the artist outside.

Falling into step beside him, Bahorel slapped his sparring partner Grantaire on the back heartily, grinning.  «You seem much less drunk than when I last saw you, old chap. » Grantaire blinked startled, giving the other a dubious sideways glance «Do I?» he inquired in a bit of mock disbelief, «I feel rather drunk, on what I cannot tell you, it might not be the absinthe and gin alone.» Bahorel barked a laugh «Quite peculiar» he says «And that, my friend, makes me think that your morning has not been as exceedingly unpleasant as you had me assume by that sour look and great deal of complaining of yours at breakfast. »

«The sunlight has made some of it worthwhile.» the artist confessed reluctantly and if he were able to blush such as other fellows of the Amis without looking even more like an ogre he would have.

Bahorel and Bossuet were most generous in tolerating his obsessive ramblings on the topic of Apollo, consequently he made no more merciful effort in hiding his devotion from them anymore, they were after all perfectly well equipped in the art of ignoring him whenever his infatuation’s ongoing epic poem grew too out of hand. «Ah» the other smirked, his eyes kind «I see» «We must be migratory birds» teased Bahorel, jutting his jaw to gesture, good humoredly, forward indicating the halo of golden ringlets and their fellow «After all we follow the sun!» «We managed to trade words with hardly any raised voices. »

«Miracles do happen after all, I’ll be damned! Next you shall turn sober and respectable!» Grantaire’s lips quirked into a brief lopsided grin «And face the world without my shielding distorting mirror? Are you quite certain you are not as drunk as I?» «For a positive change of pace I am perfectly sober and level-headed. » «You are right then, miracles do happen. » The artist’s mood turned abruptly as had a sudden afflatus of memory on how he had come into his good fortune to begin with, straightening his posture he threw the other a pointed glare. «Spare your tongue the work, capital R» the other snorted «I should have known the alcohol would not pacify you for long. It never does. »

«Witnessing Apollo being assaulted and the bloody aftermath is not easily forgotten. You are a terrible excuse for a guard, Bahorel. Be ashamed of yourself. » «Love be blessed and cursed concomitantly. » the other said to himself looking skyward dramatically, the artist only glowered at him morosely, «If you assume I do not feel a bit of guilt and a good deal of vengeful wrath, you are mistaken. You are not the only one to worry for Enjolras’s safety and wellbeing daily and you damn well know are not. »

«This son of a whore could have, conceivably, murdered him!»

«Jesus Christ, Grantaire, please do not force upon me the role of rational adult. I abhor it. It tends to give me a headache and you are, again, all too aware of this happenstance. » «Goddamn it, Bahorel!» the called fellow sighed shaking his head grimacing «You left him alone with this man. »

«The man was not that kind of threat, which beneath your love fueled rage you know to be accurate. »

«It does not matter! Enjolras was assaulted under your watch! The **one time** Apollo needed guarded!»

«If you would look in front of us you would be awarded with the visual of a rather fit and well Enjolras, whom, and I can barely believe I am saying this to you in particular, you should never underestimate. Our stubborn Chief is capable of defending himself. He may not have the sheer physical brutality, the blunt might of a pugilist like you and I but he has speed, tactic, reflexes and the element of his opponent’s ignorance of his true capabilities on his side. While I agree with you on his needing a sentry of our kind, I, contrary to my feelings on this matter which are identical to yours, try to be realistic at least. Well, sometimes. Occasionally. When sober. »

Grantaire let out a huff, breathing deeply in and out a couple of times to calm himself «Do you register that man as a continuous threat, Grantaire?» «Not for now, little information we have.» admitted the artist begrudgingly

«Then all is well for now. We may discuss tactics on security detail when you are entirely sober and have calmed somewhat. »

«Don’t be patronizing, Bahorel»

«Oh but I so rarely get the chance to be in such a position, let me savor it a bit, indulge me!»

«Apollo is a flower…» he thought aloud pained «A fragile thing. Delicate. Dainty. He requires protection, is a God and a flower at once. That is the problem, that is the conundrum. Am I drunk or insane? Lord help me if I knew! I might be both actually. »

«Do not misunderstand me, old friend. » mused Bahorel disregarding his words liberally «I would quite love to teach this man a lesson. A very drawn out, in depth lesson. » «As would I. But then we’d hang quite probably. » Bahorel was back to his devil-may-care grin, eyes alight with wicked amusement and a dangerous glint

«Only if we’d left evidence. Which would be amateurish dabbling and not like us at all. » «Oh, old friend, that attitude is precisely what I love you for - (He exhaled a forceful sigh) - Do you accept my sincere apologies?» Bahorel forwent words and answered instead by putting a comradery arm around the artist’s shoulders, giving him one healthy squeeze before slapping his back once more «Next Sunday, at our rally then, you can try and burn your hand at guarding one who does not see the necessity of it, see if you fare better. You are just as capable a fighter as I and as stubborn as a donkey as well. Just like Enjolras in fact. » Grantaire had to laugh in spite of himself «We would end up massacring each other – Or rather he would kill me and I would lift not a finger and continue to reminisce about the stunning azure of his eyes down to my last breath. » «I rather believe neither of you would go beyond yelling at each other. Both of you are impossible.» Bahorel chuckled «O but everyone had to be a critic before no?» «And I continue to be. » «Lovers are insufferable. » «You must repay me at our next sparring session then. »

«Go ahead and sulk instead. It is better for your health.»

«We’ll see about that, old chap!» Grantaire smirked «That better be a promise, R.»

«You bet it is.»

«Betting huh? Excellent idea, it always is! If you lose our next match you have to go ahead and drag your indolent ass to the next sparring lesson I give to the Amis, how about that?» «Not a chance in hell, Bahorel. Not a chance. » «We’ll see, we’ll see.» Bahorel declared implicatively, a grand smirk having returned to his lips.

 

~*~

Inside the temporary shelter of the café the remaining little groups prepared for their departure dégagé amidst general chit chat. Spirits were rather constricted were they should have been larking. Joly and Bossuet bickered pleadingly with Musichetta on whether or not either of them might be allowed to help her into her coat, neither triumphant in the end, while Feuilly, brow furrowed, unseeingly stared after Enjolras still, pensive, as he dressed for their excursion, fumbling with the buttons until Jehan came to his rescue.

On his way to Combeferre, who was making haste in buttoning his overcoat, quite intent on catching up with Enjolras apace, Courfeyrac with his florid dancer’s grace, in one flowing, flamboyant motion without stopping fully, surprised the poet by helping him into his overcoat, garnishing the gesture with an enchanting smile, cavalier little bow and a bold peck to the poet’s closed lips then sauntering on nonchalantly, throwing on his own, missing out on his reward which consisted of a dreamily amatory smile on the recipient of his chivalry accompanied by the most all- encompassing blush yet. Far removed from Cupid’s innocent ecstasies and clumsily ignorant of Feuilly’s quiet dismay of this sort of conduct, Bossuet having tired of pleasantries, was bursting with his childishly excited, casual inability to keep his tongue entombed found it appropriately necessary to engage in the gossip of the day’s unusual happenings to the uninitiated Joly, Musichetta and unfortunate Jehan, who was thus cruelly robbed of his continued reveling in young infatuation’s sweet sumptuosity, for the news was concerning enough to push him out of his careless daydreaming state, forcing him to let go even of the resplendently velvet sensation of his seemingly thoughtless almost lover’s lips upon his own on which he had sought to dwell for as long as possible, to eternalize it with words thought by mind and soul yet unspoken to the person who had enticed them, yet upon his unlucky lips the gift of the faintest taste of Courfeyrac remained.

«This man, an aristocrat or high bourgeois - you should have seen him! - pompous as the king himself, decked out in jewelry -» «Bossuet, my friend, we should not -» demurred Feuilly scowling, only to be ignored «What were you doing inside at this point in time, Monsieur Laigle?» Bossuet guiltily gave a stolid half smile, unhappy and certainly cognizant of his wrongdoing in her eyes, to his lady «Uh, well – I might have been trying to convince Grantaire to stop drowning his sorrows and go join us outside?» Musichetta scoffed, still eying the already thoroughly castigated man with frank disapproval «Please, Mademoiselle forgive me and do not be cross -» he started to plead immediately.

«Who was that panjandrum?» inquired Joly interrupting, a man of similarly inquisitive nature as his paramour Bossuet «Do you have any idea?» «I do not, know not, mon coeur. Anyways-» «Please, can we not?» interjected Feuilly again, a gentle hand of mutual comfort upon the unnaturally mute poet’s arm to lead him in direction of the door «Came right in, stormed in rather, with our beleaguered Enjolras by him -» «Did they seem familiar with each other?» asked Musichetta, having disregarded her grievance, satisfied with the effect of her minor reprimand, in favor of her desire to get to the bottom of this story, being intensely worried for her friend Enjolras

«Oh yes, quite I’d say. Not a pleasant kind of familiarity though, my dearest Mademoiselle. On the contrary. But it was all only a snippet of a moment for study until they sequestered themselves away -» «It is not right, we should not be talking behind someone’s back about them. » muttered the young workingman.

«They forgot the close the door, you see, but at times their argument was heated enough - on that aristocrats’ side, mind you – that this might not have made much difference -»

«We must do something to help ange, Clément. As soon as humanly possible. » Courfeyrac whispered urgently in the medical students ear as soon as he had thrown his arms around him in one of his regular outbreaks of passion, holding the elder man close, momentarily resting his head on the other’s broad shoulder as he was wont to do. Ever patient and tender, Combeferre stroked his right hand up and down the younger’s back soothingly, providing what the other sought without the need of conscious thought, settling each other. «He is desperately poorly and so very sad, I can hardly stand to see him so! It breaks my heart! All I wished to do all day was to embrace him, never let go and cuddle him mercilessly and feed him hot cocoa -»

«We will, étoile. We will see him better. Do not worry now.», promised Combeferre in an equally low tone

« But I do!»  replied Courfeyrac most earnestly «You do too! I can read you, you know! And I cannot help it, I must, I love him so!!»

«As do I, mon adoré rayon de soleil. I must be sober minded presently. All will be well. I promise thee. Be upbeat, we all will need your innate good cheer surely. He and I will. You know well how his states of illness tend to wear on his mood. » Courfeyrac squeezed him tightly, nodding in acquiescence before hiding his face away in the crook of his neck a bit more, his body beginning to shake with anger involuntarily «This…vile, abhorred monster… hurt him again! Our brother! He hurt ange! How dare he! Oh Lord help me I wish to -»

«Hark, I know, I know. Your anger is born of love and it is entirely just, without a doubt, yet it will not be productive. Please try to keep a stiff upper lip for me, étoile. There is nothing we can do but console him, take care of him. As we always do. That is our duty.», «I know!» whined Courfeyrac impatiently, unwrapping his arms to display his standard pout to full advantage, yet it had little effect on Combeferre for he was too well accustomed to its magic and in a mood too grave, focused and reasonable to indulge his young friend «But it is not fair all the same!»

«It most certainly is not» admitted the older as he buttoned Courfeyrac’s overcoat for him unperturbed,  «You mustn’t always lecture, I am hardly a child»  groused Courfeyrac «I too know how to care for Michel but I cannot hide my feelings as well as you!» the young man forgot his ire in an instant however and smiled cordially as Combeferre smoothed his curls with an efficient yet affectionate hand before placing on his top hat «Thank you hibou»  came the reflexive response, utterly sincere and most sweetly spoken, interlinking their arms.

«Now then, let’s brave the rain and make haste doing so. I would quite like to catch up to ange -» «The rain» sighed Courfeyrac theatrically «I do not dislike it, as such, it is quite restful, gorgeous and full of inspiration but I do just prefer to watch it fall from beside a cozy fireplace under a blanket with a hot whisky in my hand.» «Even though whisky is a little English?» chuckled Combeferre teasingly, aware of the fact it was not, «Isn’t it Scottish or Irish, you know, the freedom fighters against English tyranny? » inquired the younger half seriously «Though the English would tend to disagree certainly, I suppose. » Courfeyrac grinned impishly, which evolved almost at once into one of his common radiant, chipper, happy-go-lucky smiles «But to be sure, big brother dear, I shall continue my boycott of their red coat unabashedly fanatic, chronical monarchist agenda and its liquors and have grog, or mulled wine, or buttered rum or wassail instead!» Combeferre offered a fond, indulging smile albeit shaking his head all the same «Here I thought your favorite season were spring, little brother, yet here you stand dreaming of autumn’s and winter’s delights already in April!» «Oh but it is! Spring, I mean. Summer is too and autumn and winter! Plus there are only 256 days left until Christmas, Clément, isn’t that quite wonderful? And all the birthdays and name days beforehand!»

«- Of course that is the moment we most definitely had enough just as Grantaire and I heard a bit of a ruckus and run in and lo and behold this aristocratic pig has his hands around Enjolras’ **throat** , who is just standing there **motionless –** motionless! Not doing a thing or lifting a finger to fight him off or defend himself at all! Worse for wear with a bloody nose and a split lip!»

«That’s an outrage!» Joly cried out in appalled anger even before part describing the bloodied state of their friend was reached, perplexed

«He was just standing there?!» exclaimed Musichetta almost in unison with her lover, consternation and disbelief in her timber

« Yes, standing ramrod straight. No, nothing, not a move of muscle or reaction! He did not even do so much as blink before he spotted Grantaire -» «Did you hear of this éclat yet?» demanded Joly of the pair, who had grown silent in their trivial exchange of words as they had, in their approach, become aware of the ongoing conversational topic of their friends. «Bossuet, tell them as well. » Combeferre, classical stoic he was, betrayed little emotion at this interrogation, Courfeyrac however could not, passion and sensibility incarnate he was and had an impressive range of emotion flicker in his green eyes, before valiantly attempting to imitate the older man’s schooled neutral countenance, attempting to stay true to the other’s earlier request, somewhere in between settling on barely suppressed distress and rage.

«Knowing, no. We did not know the details until we overheard your words. »

Feuilly, more or less playing deaf of what was spoken around him and intending to escape his doomed fate of being an unwilling accomplice of gossip mongering, held the door open for Jehan and the others. Filing into the street they began to venture in a rather brisk pace, as much due to the elements’ relentless onslaught as the uproar of sensitivities occurring.

«-Grantaire was ready to kill this man, I swear to you, he was, I am sure of that! I have never witnessed him in such a frenzy, I could barely hold him back!»

«Credit where credit is due» admitted Musichetta chagrined, crossing her arms in front of her chest, a mighty fury in her eyes.

«Enjolras’ refusal to defend himself I just cannot comprehend - he can fight, I have seen him fight! He is a force to be reckoned with!»  elaborated Joly «Why on earth would he not defend himself against such heinous violence?» he added «Upon my inquiry, the only clue he divulged – cool and collected as you can imagine, as he always is - was that it was supposedly a ‘private matter’ and of no import» «A private matter» repeated Musichetta, suddenly supernaturally, terrifyingly calm «It is not such a insoluble mystery than, now is it?» she said levelly «‘A private matter’, there is little to no further inferring required on this issue. It is self-explanatory thus. »

Joly ever the opposite of his mistress remained direly infuriated «Maybe it is, yet it is still disturbing for him not to fight back at all. And does not change the nexus of it all – who was this man? How dare this blue blooded leech march into our midst, assault someone then walk away without retribution?»

«May we - please, I beg of you all - drop this topic, speak of literally anything but this instead?» caviled Feuilly frustrated «I do not mind walking even in such weather but at gossip I shall and do draw the line. »

«We should know of such issues!»  exclaimed Joly even more disgruntled «No one has the right to mistreat anyone in such a manner, no matter their familial relation. » breathed Jehan more to himself, Feuilly snuck his arm around the poet’s shoulder in response «Yes definitely not.» he agreed soothingly. «May we please leave this topic be? It is distressing Jehan. » he pleaded raising his voice slightly to be heard above the low howling of the wind and thunder.

«Oh please» annotated Joly in a huff «Our fierce little poet is not as easily disquieted nor upset, in spite of his ingenuous façade. We speak of a man with avid interests in alchemy, séances, in the darkness and light of the soul in equal measure, a man who owns a book bound in human skin, oh I could go on - Must I remind you all of the notorious grave robbing incident?» «It was not a grave robbery per se-!» «Or the infamous voodoo doll one?» «Joly you mustn’t exaggerate» pouted the poet sullenly, the bespoke man only snickered at the accusation «How come we have not heard of this particular tale yet?» Courfeyrac inquired, interest peaked «Prouvaire you never fail to astound us!» «Or his interpretation of diverse ancient funeral rites, or the time he spent a couple of nights at an abandoned medieval citadel ruins («Without inviting Combeferre or myself?» Courfeyrac was playfully affronted «For shame!») to spot a ghost which legend warns resides there, or the time he attempted to raise the dearly departed -» «Now that is unfairly taken out of context -»

«After all we are speaking of the proud owner of a gaggle of skulls -» «They are pets and have names, Joly, be polite. » admonished Courfeyrac with a brief mischievous grin «A supposedly cursed painting, a variety of taxidermied animals and a bunch of, admittedly fascinating, black magic instruments and artifacts. And let us not forget his casual dabbling in the dark lore and legend of numerous cultures in general including but not limited to certain summoning rituals-»

«Fine!» Feuilly snapped in exasperation «Frankly, it is I rather than Jehan that is in distaste of his conversation» «Jehan seldom needs rescue, he is quite competent in staying afloat, he is the damsel who fights the dragon by her own hand, except perhaps when he eventually does succeed in conjuring up something malicious and bloodthirsty that is. We will see to it then» needled Bossuet

«Are you not curious?»

«No» answered Feuilly to Joly, bluntly honest «Enjolras has the right to privacy as any fellow does, which includes you yourself Joly. Nothing good ever comes of talking behind someone’s back, snooping or of gossiping.»

«But we know so precious little of him to begin with-»

«We know enough. Let it be, Joly. He will never trust us again if you keep this up.»

«I still cannot help in wishing to know this man’s identity!» persisted Bossuet, «Oh Virgin Mary deliver me, it is none of our business!» «But it is!» insisted Joly «It should be! We are his friends, he ought to confide in us, let us if not attempt help at the very least comfort and advise him - and yet he spoke not a word of it!»

«A private matter, Monsieur Joly» reminded Musichetta tersely «He wished not to disrupt the rally»

«Poor Enjolras» muttered Jehan forlorn «He must be hurting so much.» throwing a chiding look at Joly and Bossuet he expatiated: «Another aspect you should be mindful of: would you not be ashamed and embarrassed too? Trying not to dwell on it, to spare yourself possible further pain? Mademoiselle Rébecca, I think, is quite correct in her deduction. Furthermore we should feel ashamed as well for I suspect that he tragically feared our reaction. He is trying to hide his pain, and turmoil, ignore it, trivialize it, we all are aware that is his usual modus operandi, no? I might be wrong - » «No, no, do not diminish your theories, Jehan» asserted Courfeyrac promptly, the poet’s stole a bashful yet grateful, studying glance at him «But the fact stands» he continued softly «that you cannot force your balm and help upon someone. Not everyone welcomes baring themselves in such a manner. » «And if the man had been of any threat he would have said something» reasoned Feuilly, rubbing Jehan’s back consolingly.

«He did not, so you should go ahead and respect that. It doesn’t matter who exactly this man was or not. If he wants or has to share this information he will and if not, well, that is Enjolras’ call to make. That is good enough for my humble self and it should be good enough for you as well. », «He never speaks of himself, so that is about as likely as a snowstorm in August» «Enjolras is a private man. Let the matter rest. It might simply, you know, be **none of our business!** »

«Feuilly, we are merely concerned for our leader and attempting to make some sense of the issue, nothing more» amended Bossuet «Well, that is a half-truth if I ever heard one but at least a loving one in sentiment. » deadpanned Musichetta, rolling her eyes «Are you not worried for Enjolras, Feuilly?» goaded the medical student the young workingman.

«I am! Of course I am!» replied Feuilly defensively, offended

«Then you understand -»

«Just for the record (Combeferre!) I didn’t incite this or participate in it. I am an innocent, highly disapproving bystander»

«Duly noted, Monsieur Feuilly» assured Musichetta with a dangerous catlike smile.

«Thank you kindly, Mademoiselle. I hardly dare ask…but could you take your lovers to task, please? Make them stop?»

«Am I that fright inducing and thus powerful, Monsieur Feuilly?»

«Yes? Uhm I mean…I mean - To me, to them or in general? Actually I feel I might get slapped for that sounds like a catch question, eh? For which it is too late now. Never mind what I said. Please don’t harm me.» «You are a sage amongst us, Monsieur Feuilly. A wise man indeed. » «No, not in the least, I am here am I not? Listening to gossip against my will and arguing with Joly – pardon my frank, improper boldness, Mademoiselle  - I do love you, Joly, I do, just not right at this moment-, though I am starting to suspect that I am in this one survival related regard at least. Being cautious by being scared of you, I mean. » «You are more afraid of our harmless Musichetta than of Jehan’s careless necromancy, his messing and meddling connections to the underworld («I do not possess -») and warlock endeavors?» smirked Bossuet «What odd priorities you have, dear fellow!»

«Oh stop bothering, pestering and teasing poor Jehan» rebuked Musichetta sternly «He is such a darling spirit» «Who is intimately familiar with contemplations on such things as Indian arrow poison and actual spirits, by which I mean phantoms of the night and their stories, that is.» «My heart might be a strange creature but I find that quite endearing» Courfeyrac’s coy, idly spoken words had Jehan nearly stumbling over his own feet «Why would he fear our reaction? Why would he doubt us in such a manner? The implications -»

«There are none. Enjolras simply is not one to be open about himself and his inner workings. It’s just the way he is, I can see no ill will in it by the life of me. Is it not understandable he wants to be left alone about something painful especially? Christ have mercy, I feel like this is penance for some minor sin I may have or have not committed and had forgotten about at confession» repined Feuilly sighing miserably, freely glowering at Joly to no avail «I did not know you had such a melodramatic streak, Monsieur Feuilly. Monsieur Joly and Monsieur Courfeyrac clearly have had a continued corrupting influence on you» this enticed an amused chuckle from the young workingman «Undoubtedly, Mademoiselle. Pity I enjoy it, love it and them so much really»

«Do not worry now, Monsieur Feuilly, that is nothing a couple hundred Hail Marys will not fix surely» one part of this supposed corrupting influence was still was not deterred

«The crucial question» he declared soberly «is whether Enjolras trusts us. Does he? At times I fear he does not. Not entirely at least. »

«He does. » stated Jehan with forceful conviction «He most certainly tries» mumbled Courfeyrac, his words being drowned out by the weather’s enraged clamor and noise of the streets «The two of you are suspiciously reticent on this matter» observed Bossuet, Courfeyrac made an anguished sound in his throat, pressing himself closer to Combeferre, who was presented with a possible Pandora’s box, but certainly caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

«Yes» Joly narrowed his eyes at them in a sideways glance «Would you care to enlighten us? Tell us, I entreat you!» Feuilly groaned «Dearest Joly, for all that is good and righteous, would you kindly let it go. Just leave it be. As Bossuet stated, we were informed of it being a private affair -» «I have grown quite tired of secrets!» interjected Joly «Maybe he will mention something on the issue at the debriefing»  conjectured Jehan to pacify them.

For as long as Combeferre could recall he had acted as Enjolras’ translator to and for the nonplussed, confused world, a town-crier as much as a shield, as well as his diplomat, his guide, caretaker, sextant and the guardian of his self. Roles which had become irreversibly fused into his very nature since these childhood days, roles which he tended to prioritize for good or for worse. At times he was conscious of sheltering excessively the young man whom he called his little brother within this method, of depriving him of the world’s dubious yet occasionally valuable lessons, by reasoning with his heart rather than with his mind, a reflex, an old habit which had taken on a life of its own, prone to do anything in his power to protect Enjolras, who was as vulnerable as he was fierce. Reason had to stand before sensibility currently despite his scruples and unwillingness as the unity, integrity and wholesomeness of their group was paramount. Being wise enough his young friend would see the prudence, the necessity of his decision and support it, knowing this eased his conscience and unburdened him enough to make the sapient step.

«Listen carefully, my dear friends» commanded he, intermitting their arguing using all the gravitas and steady authority he was blessed with. «For I will not repeat myself on this matter. » he avowed somberly, waiting until all of them regarded him with undivided attention «It will be spoken of once and only this once. I do hope I am making myself quite clear on this. Do we have an understanding?» The Amis were singularly startled, aghast and stunned by the plain vehemence of the trenchant, grave, awe inducing tone of their usually stoic, sedated yet good natured philosopher’s injunction. Neither Joly nor Bossuet hesitated «Yes» the former readily agreed «Of course we have» «First of all» he elucidated, speaking in a precise, detached, crisp manner «Enjolras, naturally, was honest with you, Lesgle, Feuilly, the issue happens to be a rather private matter indeed. Familial, to be precise. The man who assaulted Enjolras is his estranged father Ladislas Charles-Aldéric Enjolras»

«His father?!» cried Joly in repulsed, confounded horror «Oh» whispered Jehan lugubriously «That is quite dreadful» he muttered «And so, so sad!»

Musichetta was restraining her wrath, staring forward unblinkingly, displaying no outward sign of her rage, beholding nothing in particular, still hugging herself tightly as though she was chaining herself in order not hunt the offender down this instant «A curse on him» was all she murmured through her teeth, Bossuet was too stupefied to verbalize and so was Feuilly who was especially rapt in his attentive focus on him «Yes» nodded Combeferre impartially «But heed my warning and do not display anything he could construe as pity or comfort, nor speak of it to him. Trust me, he will not take graciously to such well-intentioned gestures, as Jehan has suggested before he is one of the fellows who prefers to be left to introvert his grief. He means no insult, devaluation or snub by it to any of you» Bossuet looked as though he might try and speak a remark but Combeferre silenced him with a withering glare «Enjolras has been the ward of his eldest maternal uncle Raymond de Baoumirane – he may have mentioned him to you, Jehan, before without this context – and his wife, since childhood; they raised him. He has had neither contact with his father since the age of nine nor does the man wield any amount of legal authority over him since then.» He did not pause for any plausible inquiries instead continued on in one breath «Rest assured that at no point has this occurrence endangered our society, its ambitions or individual members in any way, shape or form. For that I will personally vouch. To reiterate: It is a very private matter, a matter which I must ask you, humbly, as your friend, to relinquish and let be. As much as this might irk or insult you but there is nothing you could or should do, honorable and understandable as these notions might be. That is all **I** will speak of this issue. »

Once more Bossuet tried to opine, likely on something he had overheard but seemed to bethink himself and wisely kept his peace – for now - which was just as well with Combeferre, anymore disclosure, especially on the sensitive, potentially controversial, captious, problem and risk fraught topic of Enjolras’ mother (He trusted the Amis not to react cruelly, not to expel and vindicate his young friend – on the contrary) and dolorous one of his childhood, lay within the hands of his young friend and in his only, he would stand by him and support him, he would even lend words were Enjolras was failed by his own yet he would never do so without his explicit permission and in his presence. He had no right to speak any more and he would not, they had to accept this for the time being as harsh as it might appear.

Ahead of them Enjolras forced himself to forge ahead as if in a trance, as if by powers not his own, he did not feel the rain nor the wind, his entire body strummed with pain, his hands were entirely numb, his extremities felt impossibly heavy, his steps as if he was wading through a muddy marsh, and his chest crushingly tight, every breath more shallow, more excruciating, carrying less and less oxygen to his desperate lungs, the world around him spun infinitely and its constructs run together as if nothing more than wet paints on a canvas, the grotesque blotches of colors and lights before his eyes became dolorously blinding until they were but pricking smarts, all whilst his peripheral vision darkened, faded, his surroundings swallowed more and more by shadow, only a tiny, dim, dying candle point of light remained, appearing distorted as though behind thick, turbid window glass, the voices and noise of the Parisian streets dulled to a dreadful droning sound before too ceasing, falling away to total silence, a terrible deafness, a black tunnel enshrouded him, he felt as though he were walking on unsteady ground, which seemed to vanish as if the earth itself was breaking away in the manner of an earthquake, leaving something of a mere balancing beam like a small, water soaked log over a baying creek to maneuver. Only the noise and force of the excruciating vengeance of his heartbeat persisted with him, pounding maddeningly against his rips. Finally he was subdued. Darkness conquered. Enjolras took one more miniscule, stumbling step, faltered, then suddenly fell into a dead faint, a strangled, yelping cry escaping his lips as he did, alerting his friends.

Rushing forward in a flash it was Bahorel who caught him before he could fully hit the lakescape cobblestone street. The young revolutionary’s limbs were rigid for a moment, thin trickles of blood dripping out of his nose and the left corner of his mouth. Then he began to convulse. Muscles contracting and jerking rabidly, stiff limbs thrashing, body shaking, head thrown, eyes rolled back and half-closed then shut, jaw clenched so tightly one could fear it might shatter. Acting entirely on instinct, Bahorel sank to one knee clutching his young friend’s agonizingly light body, supporting what little weight there was with his propped up leg against his broad build, arms slung around Enjolras’s heaving chest securing his arms as best as he could, tucking his head in the crook of his neck. The Guide and Center were there in the blink of an eye, Combeferre was in full physician’s concentration as he tended to his friend, his every move proficiently veteran, Courfeyrac knelt on his friend’s kicking legs, immobilizing them, his pleasant face marred writ with stony focus and apprehension, an afflicted expression of déjà vu and alarm scintillating in his green eyes. Instantly they were enveloped in a cocoon of umbrellas by their shocked friends, blocking out an agitated Robespierre.

Grantaire too stood outside of this circle, having been crowded away unconsciously, relegated. Unmoving, in a daze of utter apathy, unhearing of the street’s tumult and the voices of his friends, truly shaken to his very core, his mind was blank in near disassociation of the moment except for the most all-encompassing existential trepidation, a naked primal dread, instinctive, lonely, pernicious, vanquishing him from within, lacerating his sense of axiom reality, his tenet, which were his bedrocks of security in an ever fluctuating world. He too felt as though he were falling, an endless plunge, the world – his world - terrifyingly surreal as it disintegrated before him, time floundering over itself just seconds ago seemed to have imploded into a standstill. In the chaos and upheaval which ruled his consciousness he abruptly noticed Enjolras’s top hat sitting on its side on the wet path, abandoned, his pulse hammering away, he bent stagnantly and gathered it, dusting it absently with such care as if he were handling an object of glass, its fellow in effigy, by proxy, then unconsciously his grasp tightened until he clung to it, cradling it against his breast akin to a life buoy.

 

To be continued...

 

* * *

 

  _More coming up, stay tuned, my marvelous little lovelies - Same bat-time, same bat-channel!_

_Thank you so much for reading!  Maybe think about leaving kudos of encouragement,_

_Blessings, hugs and virtual cupcakes,_

_Rosefinch_

 

* * *

 

**Footnotes**

 

 

  * ___Let’s talk about the series and ‘Verse name origin! The series name “Eternity in an Hour” is derived from good old “Auguries of Innocence” by William Blake, its beginning words are “To see a World in a Grain of Sand/And Heaven in a Wild Flower/Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand/And eternity in an Hour (…)”. I also considered “Ne’er ask the hour” after a poem by Thomas Moore, “Kingdom of Days” after the Bruce Springsteen song, “Eternity’s Sunrise” derived from another short poem by William Blake, “The Private Lives of the Heroes of the Republic”, “Adventures in Being Young Gentlemen and Revolutionaries”, “The Hymn Book of Friendship”, “Carpe Diem”, “Amistat” which is the Old Provencal, Occitan and Catalan word for friendship. The ‘Verse name starts with the Occitan (badly translated) phrase The Cançons e Pourtrèts de (Gaireben) Istòria meaning ‘Songs and portraits from quasi-history’ and Audeamus is the first person plural present active subjunctive of Latin audeō, audeamus means ‘Let us or May we dare/venture/risk or be eager/ready to battle’.___

**Name etymology I**

_**Charles' Name:**  Ladislas is the French version of the Vladislav variant Ladislav (or in its Germanic form Ladislaus) derived from the Slavic elements ‘vladeti’ meaning ‘to rule, cause or command’ and ‘slava’ meaning ‘glory’ hence ‘one who commands or causes glory’. Charles is the French form of  Germanic Karl simply meaning ‘man’ and Aldéric is the French version of Germanic Aldric which is composed of the elements ald ‘old’ and ric ‘power or rule’, hence combined both names to “man of the old power”. _

_**Enjolras** : Michel is the French version of Michael from Hebrew meaning “Who is like God?”, after the Archangel Michael, the prince of heaven and leader of the heavenly host. The eldest angel and epitome of all seraphs, he is considered the patron of warriors, military, knights/chivalry, paramedics, firefighters, police officers, paratroopers, the Jewish people, Catholic Church, the ill and suffering, occasionally along with Saint George for Crusaders and many more. The angel most usually depicted with sword and armor; his sword is often mentioned as being one of fire or double sided with one side being justice and the other being truth. Well-known is his cry of “Serviam!” meaning ‘I will serve!’ in response to Archangel Lucifer’s ‘Non serviam’ in his response to God’s order to serve humanity, followed by his casting out of his beloved brother out of heaven following a fierce battle in which he wounded his side. Serviam became an important Catholic term to express willingness to serve and love God, the Church and Christianity in general. Alexandre - the French version of Greek Alexandros meaning “defender of man” , Anatole is the French version of Greek Anatolios meaning ‘sunrise, dawn' and 'east', Ehud means ‘united’ in Hebrew –a judge in the Hebrew Book of Judges who was sent by God to deliver the Israelites from Moabite domination, he slew Eglon, their king, with the words ‘I have a message from God for you’ as he drew his concealed sword and stabbed him in the abdomen, then he escaped into the countryside and rallied the Israelite tribes with the sounding of the shofar, who proceeded to kill the Moabites, cutting off the fords of the Jordan River and invading Moab itself, killing more than 10,000 of their soldiers, after which peace ruled the land for 80 years, Roland from Germanic elements hrod ‘fame’ and land thusly “famous land” - Roland was a famous semi-legendary French hero whose story is told in the medieval epic ‘La Chanson de Roland’, in which he is a nephew of Charlemagne killed in battle with the Saracens, and Ignace is the archaic French version of Latin Ignatius of Etruscan origin meaning ‘fire’ or ‘to set/be ablaze’ hence ‘fiery or burning one’. The Occitan version of Michel is __Miquèl_ _(Miquel) with short forms/diminutives Miquèu and Micheu. Nahum means ‘comforter’ in Hebrew, he was a minor prophet in the Hebrew Bible who wrote about the end of the Assyrian Empire in a vivid poetic style. Moïse is the French version of Moses (‘to draw out (of the water, stream), to retrieve, to deliver; deliverer’), for the major prophet who gave the Ten Commendments to the Israelites and led them out of Egyptian slavery and to back to their homeland. Léonard is the French version of Germanic Leonhard meaning ‘lion strength, lion strong, lion hearted’ from Old High German Leonhard containing elements ‘levon’ meaning ‘lion' and the suffix ‘hardu’ meaning ‘brave, hardy, courageous’, patron saint of prisoners and horses. Marie is the French version of Hebrew Miriam meaning ‘bitter, bitterness, their rebellion, rebellion/rebellious, bitter sea, strong waters, wished for child’, Immaculée/Imaculée is the French version of Italian Immacolata, Catalan Immaculada, Spanish Inmaculada and Latin Immaculata meaning ‘immaculate, pure, unspotted’, a Marian devotional name referring to the concept of Immaculate Conception and the Feast of Immaculate Conception. Daniel means ‘God is my judge’ in Hebrew, Francois means ‘free man, Frenchman’, he was named for this meaning and for Saint Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals, the environment, ecology and many more, and Heliodoro is Greek meaing ‘gift of the sun’ from Greek helios meaning ‘sun’ and ‘doron’ meaning ‘gift’, from Helios, Titan of the sun in Greek Mythology._

_**Surname of Enj’s maternal family** : ‘de Baoumirane’ is a fictionalized version of de Baux (de Baux plus simplified de Marignane = Bau-mirane, with Bau spelled the Provencal way as ‘Baou’), derived from the House of Baux which was one of the richest and most powerful families of Medieval Provence, known as the 'Race d’Aiglon'. They were independent, considerably powerful Lords as castellan of Les Baux and Arles. They held important fiefs and vast lands, incl. the principality of Orange. Mirane from Occitan mirar (_ _Italian mirare,_ _Catalan miro/mirar/mir and French mirer), originating with the Latin mīrō/ mīrus/ mirandus meaning ‘admirable,worthy of admiration, to marvel at, which is to be wondered or marveled at, to look at/watch (in awe), to watch intensely/stare, to be amazed at; related to mirage and the words in Romance languages for ‘wonder’ and ‘wonderful’) and in Provençal, the word “Baux” ( "li Baou" in Provencal) means escarpment or cliff, and refers to the natural fortress on which the family built their castle, the citadel Château des Baux. The advantages provided by its location, which are the escarpment, in its raised mountain valley and the ridge of the Alpilles which allowed them to control all approaches to the citadel and its surrounding countryside, including the passage up and down the River Rhône and the Mediterranean, all shielded it perfectly from martial aggression. The surname Enjolras itself most likely stems from Spanish Occitan enjeura meaning "to terrify"._

  * **Name etymology II:**
  * **_Combeferre_** _: Clément is the French version of Latin Clemens (or its derivative Clementius) meaning ‘merciful, gentle’. Henri – French version of Henry (In its original Germanic and Old High German form Heinrich) meaning ‘home ruler’, Edmond – French version of Old English Edmund meaning ‘guardian of prosperity’, Justus – from Latin meaning ‘just or fair’ and Philibert either from Greek (philos – friend) or Germanic ( filu – much) and beraht – bright thusly either means ‘friend of brightness’ or ‘much brightness’ – the spelling in French was altered to allow the association with the Greek._

**_Courfeyrac_** _: Aurèle is the French version of Latin Aurelius and archaic French version of Aurélien - which would be from Aurelianus but same meaning – both derived from Latin aureus meaning ‘golden’, Frédéric is the French version of German Friedrich (English: Frederick) from Germanic elements frid ‘peace’ and ric ‘power, rule’ hence ‘peaceful ruler, powerful peace, power of peace, peaceful rule’  and Ferdinand is a name of Germanic origin, composed of the elements frith meaning ‘protection’, frið meaning ‘peace’ or alternatively farð meaning ‘travel, journey’ and nath ‘courage’ or nand ‘ready, to risk, venture’, hence either ‘protection and courage’ or ’peaceful or protective courage/journey/ venture’, Hilaire is French from Latin Hilarius derived from hilaris meaning ‘cheerful’ and Baudouin also spelled Bauldoin or Baldoin is composed of Germanic elements bald ‘bold or brave’ and win ‘friend’ thus means ‘bold friend’, Xavier from a Basque location meaning ‘a new house/ home’ in reference to Saint Francis-Xavier. Aurèle (“golden”) is a play on Latin aurea mediocritas, which refers to the Philosophical golden mean, the virtuous middle ground – The Center. The golden mean is a middle ground between two (sinful) extremes – excess on one hand and deficiency on the other – In Greek mentality this well roundedness was an attribute of beauty. In other words: harmony._

**_Joly_** _: Nicolas is the French version of English Nicholas of Greek Nikolaos meaning ‘victory of the people’, in honor of Saint Nicholas of Myra, patron saint of children, the falsely accused, pharmacists, navigators, the poor, prostitutes, maidens, brides, sailors, merchants, mariners, military intelligence, teachers, unjustly condemned, the unmarried, pupils and students, notaries, newlyweds, repentant sinners and many, many more. I haven’t had a Nicholas in one of my stories for a while so here we go ;). Christian is obvious, but Hugues is the French version of Hugo (Hugh) meaning ‘heart, spirit, mind’. Pantaléon (From Greek Panteleímon (Panteleimon) meaning ‘all compassionate’ in honor of Saint Pantaleon, patron saint of physicians and midwives, invoked against headaches, consumption, witchcraft, accidents, loneliness and as a helper for crying children; several Midi towns bear the name Saint-Pantaléon as well._

**_Bossuet_** _: Gilbert means ‘bright pledge’ from Germanic Gisilberht (with other original spellings such as Guilbert, Gislebert, Gilebert) composed of Germanic elements gisil meaning ‘pledge, hostage’ and behrt meaning ‘bright’, Odilon is the French male version of Odilia (often rendered Odile or Odette – like in Swan Lake) meaning ‘wealth of the fatherland’, patron saint of Alsace and of good eyesight._

**_Feuilly_** _: Léopold is derived from Germanic elements ‘liut’ meaning ‘people’ and bold meaning ‘courage’ thusly ‘courage of the people/courageous people/the bold people, people-bold’._

**_Grantaire_** _: Isaïe is the French version of Hebrew Isaiah and means ‘YHWH is salvation’ or more broadly ‘God is salvation’, its Greek version is Isaias/Esaias, and Achille is the French form of Greek Achilles meaning ‘he who embodies the grief of the people’ named for the hero in Greek Mythology and Trojan War, greatest warrior and central character in Homer's Iliad, whose mother was the immortal nymph Thetis, and his father, the mortal Peleus. The Greek surname Nevrakis means 'corageous'._

**_Bahorel_** _: Tristan derived from Celtic (Brythonic,Pictish) Drust, Drustan, Drustanus or Welsh noun trwst (plural trystau) or verb trystio meaning ‘to clatter’, the noise specifically of ‘clanking swords’ hence meaning ‘riot, tumult, outcry, noise’, popular for Arthurian Romance; Rainier is derived from the Germanic elements ragin ‘advice’ and hari ‘army’ therefore meaning ‘army strategist/ adviser/general’  and Georges is French form of Greek Georgios, meaning ‘farmer, earth-worker’, given in honor of Saint George, famous patron saint of soldiers, most often depicted slaying a dragon. Hébert is the French version of High German Herbert derived from Germanic elements hari ‘army’ and beraht ‘bright’ thus ‘bright army’._

**_Jehan_** _: Jean is the French version of John from Hebrew Yochanan meaning ‘YHWH (God) is gracious’, Paul is the common form of Latin Paulus meaning ‘small, humble, rare’,Céleste is the unisex French version of Latin caelestis meaning ‘celestial, heavenly’, Florentin is the French version of Latin Florentius (Florentinus) and a male variant of unisex Florence meaning ‘flourishing, prosperous’ and Godefroy is the archaic French version of Germanic Godafrid meaning ‘god’s peace’._

* * *

 

  * Chapter title derived from the George Herbert quote “One father is more than a hundred schoolmasters".



 

  * ‘mon bien-aimé tourtereau’ means ‘my beloved/favorite baby turtledove’ and ‘mon (petit) bijou’ means ‘my (little) gemstone/jewel/precious darling’



 

  * Joly’s cat Biot is named for Jean-Baptiste Biot (1774 – 1862) a French physicist, astronomer and mathematician famous for the Biot-Savart law in magnetism. In 1803 Biot was sent by the Académie française to report back on 3000 meteorites that fell on L’aigle, France. He was the one who established the reality of meteorites. Hippocrates is way more obvious :D



 

  * [Great Pyrenees Mountain Dog](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Pyrenees) (aka Pyrenean Mountain Dog or Chien de Montagne des Pyrénées).



 

  * Sarrasin is the French noun for buckwheat, kinda made it up as a color name. Persimmon wasn’t used as a color name until the late 19th or early 20th century.



 

  * Hébertists were the hardcore radical gang of bullies of the Revolution against the moderate Girondin fraction and the leading Montagnards. Named for their association with populist journalist Jacques Hébert, they came to brief power during the Reign of Terror and were ardent supporters of the dechristianization of France.



 

  * A ‘cuckold child’ (the cuckold being the husband of an adulterous wife), ‘cuckoo’s egg’, or ‘a cuckoo in the nest’ is a reference for the cuckoo bird’s trick of laying its eggs into the nests of other bird species, this is known as brood parasitism. However, the cuckoo is just one of many birds that are brood parasites, but they sure are the most well-known. It’s a really old (as in Middle Ages old) folksy idiom meaning a man who has unknowingly raised another man’s child as his own, paternity fraud, the direct implication is that the husband is deceived and unaware of the wife’s unfaithfulness and paternity of the child. In the early-mid 20th century we might have said ‘milkman’s child’ or ‘mailman’s child’ .



 

  * Latin phrases: Fait accompli literally means ‘an accomplished fact’ and refers to ‘a done deal’, a thing that has already happened or been decided, irreversibly, before those affected hear about it/can do anything about/query/alter or reverse it, leaving them with no option but to accept. While Enj does correctly refer to it as a logical fallacy, he applies it sort of out of context. If it’s used as an argument in something like political or scientific discourse it would be correct but a person’s actions might very well be fait accompli for another affected person who has to deal with the fallout or ripples of the other’s behavior – so it’s not a logical fallacy but sadly common in human interactions.



 

  * Mme. Brassard’s name is derived from the word for an armlet/armband used in military and police uniforms, worn over the upper arm, most often they state such things as unit, role or carry rank badges or other insignia. Mme. Palomer’s name is Provencal and may directly refer to ‘a dove or pigeon keeper’ or symbolically ‘a mild-mannered person’. LeClerc refers to a clerk or scribe. Agate is the French version of Agatha meaning simply ‘good’ from Greek agathos, Thècle is the French form of Greek Thekla meaning ‘glory/fame of God’ – that last one had no specific reason for me to use it other than being old fashioned.



 

  * Anorexia mirabilis (Latin for ‘miraculous lack of appetite’) also known as Inedia prodigiosa (‘prodigious fasting’).  Anorexia mirabilis is not a medical term even though it does bear some resemblance to Anorexia nervosa but it was more associated with ascetic practices and flagellant behavior including chastity. When religious it often associated with Catholicism or Orthodox Christianity. Some saints such as Catherine of Siena were known for excessive fasting – which was seen as denoting humility and purity. Fasting girls or ‘miraculous maids’ were young girls and women who emulated these female saints – fasting girls were more Victorian while ‘miraculous maids’ were known much earlier. In the Middle Ages ritualistic fasting was rather wide spread especially amongst women even though the extreme forms such as Anorexia mirabilis were still ‘special’ then.      



 

  * Mme. Brassard refers to the Women’s March on Versailles also known as The October March. One of the earliest and most significant events of the French Revolution. The March began on the morning of October 5th 1789 amongst women in the marketplaces of Paris over high prices and scarcity of bread, quickly growing into a mob of thousands and joined by revolutionaries. After ransacking the city armory for weapons they marched to the Palace of Versailles and besieged it. In the end they successfully pressed their demands upon King Louis XVI and compelled the king, his family and most of the Assembly to return to Paris with them. The march symbolized an important rift in power and rung in the beginning of the end of the king’s independence. Madame Veto was an epithet given to Marie Antoinette, it is used in the sans-culottes song La Carmagnole and refers to her coaxing/encouraging the king into using his veto powers. When the women refer to her as Austrian (or L'Autrichienne in French meaning ‘The Austrian Woman’) it is accurate as Marie Antoinette was born Maria Antonia von Habsburg-Lothringen, Archduchess of Austria, the fifteenth and second youngest child of Francis I, Holy Roman Emperor and Empress Maria Theresia, at Hofburg Palace in Vienna, Austria, on November 2nd 1755.  



 

  * Musichetta’s given name Rebecca (or Rébecca in French) is from Hebrew Rivkah/Rivqah meaning ‘ensnarer’, ‘captivating’ and/or ‘to tie or bind (firmly)’ originating in the Hebrew word ribhqeh lit. meaning ‘connection’ or ‘bond’. Her surname is found in Sicily (I used a surname database) but does not have any specific meanings or connections I could find.



 

  * Ange means ‘angel’, étoile means ‘star’ and hibou means ‘owl’ more specifically a short form of ‘Hibou grand-duc’ the French name of the [Eurasian Eagle Owl,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eurasian_eagle-owl) and the singular form of the owl genus hiboux which have characteristic ear tuffs. Mon adoré rayon de soleil – my adored ray of sunshine/sunlight. 



 

  * A stridor is a harsh or grating vibrating breathing noise often found in children with croup caused by turbulent or obstructed air flow in the larynx or windpipe.



 

  * **French interjections/cursing:**
  * mordieu – abbreviation of ‘de par la mort de Dieu’ meaning ‘by the death of (the) God(s)’. Something similar in Elizabethan English would be ‘Sdeath. Full on blasphemous but not really vulgar.
  * ‘Nom de bleu’ translates to ‘by the name of the Lord’ (but used as ‘my goodness’) and palsambleu (abbreviation of ‘par le sang (de) bleu/Dieu’) to ‘’Zounds or literally ‘by the wounds/blood of Jove/God’ referring to the wounds (and their blood) of Christ before the crucifixion (used like ‘drat’). Feuilly, uses the euphemistic hence non blasphemous alternatives substituting very offensive, blasphemous ‘Dieu’ with the neutral ‘bleu’ most famously known in English as used in ‘Sacrebleu’ (‘good heavens/sacred heavens’), this was common amongst more pious/mild mannered individuals. He did start to say ‘merde’ or ‘merde alors’ though, which translates to ‘shit (then)’. By the way if you are wondering: In medieval times people cursed/created oaths on the body parts and anything relating to, instead of God’s actual name so as to not break the Third Commandment (‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain’). As with Grantaire’s curse it refers more to the communion, here the wine (which becomes the blood) instead of the actual blood/wounds of Christ.
  * ‘Corps de dieu’ translates to ‘by the body of (the) God(s)’ – yeah well R has no such qualms, even though that’s still only blasphemous and not vulgar. The ‘body of God’ probably refers to the Eucharistic bread not the actual body. But ‘putain de merde’ definitely is vulgar meaning something like ‘fucking hell, holy shit or god damnit’. Bad ‘Taire, bad bad ‘Taire - That’s a dollar for the swearing jar, buddy.



 


	2. Drop by Drop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo my darling readers,
> 
> I am desperately sorry for the long wait and for not uploading this chapter in its entirety but here is a tiny sneak peek for the second chapter featuring a first impression of Enj's mum. Again I beg your gracious forgiveness for the long duration between updates and promise to try all in my power and get the rest of this chapter up as soon as possible. Thank you so, so much for all your kind words of encouragement, constructive criticism and patience! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this tiny snippet and can forgive me for not uploading the chapter in its totality. I really struggled with the post-seizure interactions between the Amis which is why I could not, in good conscience, upload the rest of this until I am reasonably pleased with it. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading and sorry for the disappointment! 
> 
> UNBETA'D, all mistakes and inaccuracies are mine.
> 
> Kudos are life ;)

**Chapter Two**

**Drop by Drop**

 

__“If you desire healing,_ _

_let yourself fall ill_

_let yourself fall ill.”_

_― Jalaluddin Rumi_

_“Every man's life is a fairy tale written by God's fingers.” - Hans Christian Andersen_

__“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” - Khalil Gibran_ _

__“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle.”_ _― John Watson/Ian MacLaren__

__“Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief?” - William Blake_ _

_“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o’erwrought heart and bids it break.” ― William Shakespeare, Macbeth_

_“What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step. It is always the same step, but you have to take it.” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Wind, Sand and Stars_

An estate in the Provençal countryside, Southern France - Sunday, November 8th 1812

At last Anna Amàlia de Baoumirane and her little boy Miquèl were once more alone; the doctor and his assistants having taken their leave mere minutes prior, following the conclusion of yet another heartrending regime of treatment, including a bleeding procedure on the enfeebled child. Thereby, having furthermore preemptively dismissed earlier all remaining servants, mother and son were finally gladdened to find themselves left to indulge in the tranquil, curative peace and joy of each other’s company. As ever during his frequent illnesses, the duchess’ maternal heart keened, ached terrifically for his suffering, for the grievous impotency to release him of it, and it worried, fretted continuously, exceedingly, albeit altogether silently and secretively suppressed within as maternal hearts were prone to and supposed to do, for her beloved son, who was, after all, her only child. Wan as chalk and near limp in her supporting hold, he regarded her through his long, fair lashes, oceanic eyes bright in reverence and primal trust, even acutely, intently wakeful, despite the fever and pain, stalwartly defying their bravest, most persevering boy’s state of pervading exhaustion.

Lionhearted and indomitable these beauteous eyes had not shed a single tear, nor had their boy cried out but once during his phlebotomy, instead he had valiantly joined her in reciting the psalms and sing the hymns of Sext, a daily ritual, bilateral reassurance, and a deliberate effort to distract withal then, yet he currently fussed habitually, if supinely, weakly in protest, as he watched her ladle out of its small pot some of the well simmered congee, which had been kept nice and warm for him, for the duration of his treatment. As most mothers did from time immemorial, she too expertly knew her child’s nature intuitively, his peculiarities and quirks and how to manage, alleviate and circumvent them, and was thus insouciant to his whim, secure and confident in her innate skillset which was to invariably know the right trick and word to educate and govern, placate, cheer, entertain and guide him.

Soothing him steadfastly, she forwent the satiable main course in favor of reaching for the platter of dried and fresh tropical fruits, and smartly, enticingly presented a date to his lips. He had already quieted significantly, had reluctantly stopped sluggishly turning his head this and that way, hiding his face in the pashmina shawl around her shoulders and pressing it into her side, into the sumptuous balaustine red satin of her dress, indeed he now sat passive and meek as a lamb, snuggled up against her, amiable, virtuous, mannerly child he was, disabused of his half-hearted resistance, becalmed by his mother’s equanimity as well as abandoned by most of the remnants of his energies, his eyes gleaming nevertheless with curiosity and a simple joy at the sight of the tempting sweet treat, albeit he abstained from devouring it immediately, instead he directed a long, expectantly insistent, prompting glance up at her.

«Now then, would the man of the house like to say Grace, my darling angel? Or should I?» she inquired half-rhetorically in fond foreknowledge of the answer, «No, Mamà» he replied quietly almost whisperingly, yet empathically with all the sober, dignified sense of duty so admirably unique to him «You must not force to strain and overexert yourself, my brave, stubborn little seraph. Remember, Miquèl, when we spoke of this?» the little boy shook his head assertively «Yes, Mamà dear, I do» answered he staidly, earnestly «You must not fret, Mamà, for I will be good and not strain myself! But, I would very much like to say Grace, please, if I may. May I, Mamà?» «Of course, you may.» she affirmed pacifyingly, smiling in gentle mother’s pride «I so love to please you and the Lord by being dutiful!» he declared, jocund and serious at once, «Verily, you are the sweetest pious little boy, I am so very proud of you and will evermore be. Undoubtedly the Lord smiles down upon good boys such as you. Mamà is uniformly pleased with you forever and always.» she elucidated, giving many a feathery kiss to his temple and cheek .

«And she adores and loves you boundlessly, my darling angel, my invaluably precious lion cub!» she added expressly, «I love thee Mamà dear! I love you the most in the world, a love as wide as the sky, as deep as the ocean and as great as the distance beyond the farthest planet in the galaxy, and yet I love you even more than that, for you are the best mother of all!» he exclaimed fulsomely perfervid, returning a venerative bisou to her cheek, then as was common and amusingly endearing to most infants, he too had suddenly become very much distracted, in this case by the slight twitching paw movements of Pythagoras, the napping Afghan Hound puppy, laying curled up beside them, which, axiomatically, had to be urgently addressed by gratuitous, exuberant hugging and petting; the dog awakened almost forthwith to wag his tail in sleepdrunken delight, nuzzling into his young master’s hand. She decided to take advantage of this moment of abstraction to assail her son with a silly if cautious, brief tickle, squawking in surprise, he squirmed and giggled playfully but quickly had to calm himself to regain his breath, yet he nevertheless flashed her a grand whimsical smile and his eyes continued to twinkle and shine with the so addictive, enchanting, carefree, innocent gayness which so nourished, inspirited and replenished her soul, as he draped himself over the puppy to rub its belly extensively, then proceeded to hug and kiss her still more.

Recalling his requested task, the sudden, excited motion of the Sign of the Cross made the crucifix and Marian icon pendants of the rosary, which was slung akin to a bracelet around his wrist, twirl and bounce, its gold and beads of pearl and Lapis Lazuli, glittering merrily as he begun to articulately, solemnly declaim the familiar prayer «Benedic, Domine, nos et haec tua dona quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen. » he had to pause again to catch his impeded breath, her mind focused solely on him patting and stroking his back attentively with one hand even as she too becrossed herself for a second time, mechanically, with the other «Mensae caelestis participes faciat nos, Rex aeternae gloriae. Amen.» «Macte, you recited that so very well!» she commended, feeding him the longed for date «Thank you, Mamà!» he beamed proudly yet wearily, breathlessly, his body unable to completely belie its correctly expected overexertion, nevertheless finally relishing his treat, whilst tiny, careful fingers already labored to snatch an easy to reach dice of papaya off the plate, so as to offer it to her displaying his oft observed saintly smile «Will you have some too? Mamà should have some too!» he insisted sensibly, in his usual altruistic enthusiasm «Thank you, my darling angel, she certainly will.» and she did, maugre the lack of hunger common to her in any times of worry, of anxiety over his health and wellbeing, to his quiescent elation « Indeed, thou must never be hungry or wish for anything, as I vow I shall always provide for you!» he proclaimed gallantly, the selfless, compassionate thoughtfulness of his pure heart continuing to astound, amaze, touch and charm her deeply, daily, every occurrence of it anew «O my beloved son, I am truly blessed, for I am certain you will» she assured with caresses and cuddles «But for the time being that is Mamà’s purpose and responsibility»

Following a few more shared slices of orange, mandarins and banana, pieces of date, fig, prune and apricot, much to her relief, he proved placidly appreciative enough for her to successfully, dotingly coax him into enjoying eagerly, obediently, quite a few spoons full of the more nourishing meal his body needed - the congee, with its poached eggs, shredded partridge, chanterelle, Ou de Reig and porcini mushrooms, apples and seasonal vegetables would hopefully help revitalize him, aiding the ever elusive, ever hard-fought healing process - all the while encouraging and praising him liberally, cooing and crooning words of eternal adoration, of the purest, fiercest of loves, sacred words as old as history, recitations and incantations of the psalms and odes of the ancient, mysterious scripture of motherly devotion, flowing forth from her soul, wrapping and weaving themselves into a tapestry of consolation and precious memories around their hearts.

In the most gentle leisure, she held the cup of Masala chai to his lips between spoonfuls and nibbles of brioche aux raisins topped with some jam and banon or alternatively mató, from which he drank happily if at first gingerly in little sips, savoring the sapid taste of spices and milk more and more with each one, her motherly heart tentatively recovering its poise in this pivotal reason to exult again, rejoicing of its own accord in his reviving nourishment, reveling, comme il faut – nay! - indeed ideal, in the ostensibly humble fundamental maternal ability to provide and nurture, to mitigate, console and cherish.

«Sated?» she queried eventually, genially and tenderly, as one serving had been finished and a second nearly so albeit with noticeably diminished gusto upon each new spoonful, his languid nonverbal answer consisted of a big yawn and a faint nod «And very sleepy.» she noted bemusedly, to which he merely made a blithe little noise of contentment as he enjoyed one last dried apricot and piece of sweetbread, whilst she was smoothing back some his loose ringlets, then cleaned their fingers with the ready bowl and a serviette, infallibly, thoroughly diligent in her affectionate care «Let’s rest then» the duchess announced benevolently judicious, placing another prolonged kiss to his still burning forehead and proceeding to reapply some cold compresses to it and his neck, before she nestled them back under a multitude of quilts and blankets, «So you may convalesce betimes, and frolic, play and explore once again, like little boys should. You will see, a little sleep will help meliorate, vivify and rally you already.» He rewarded her then, overwhelmed by enervation and advancing in galloping strides the point of willingly yielding to the somniferous warmth of their luxuriously soft, snug cocoon, with a dreaming, contemplatively beatific smile of hopeful, serene optimism.

They lay idle for infinite moments of cozy harmony, relaxing to the monotone, drumming pitter patter of the rare late autumn rain outside and the abuzz crackling of the blaze in the fireplace, the flames of which dissolving with the ample candlelight cast an embosoming glow, a warm embrace of light, which created a phantasmagorical shadow play of the silhouettes of the boy’s plethora of toys littered all across the floor and illuminated their lounging forms benignantly, cuddling as she sang to him, one of his spindly arms draped across her stomach protectively, the thumb of the other in his mouth, his head resting between the crook of her neck and her collar bone, cheek resting on the trim of Russian sable fur on her jacket and the soft Pashmina fabric of her shawl, not yet allowing himself to drift off into the embrace of Morpheus. A hopeful felicity kindled in her soul, as her instincts felt him reanimating, enlivening, his pain allaying in liminal skips and bounds as he lay snuggled close to her, lulled and assured by the conversance of his mother’s presence as much as her ministrations.

The ardent congeniality of his primordially familiar presence - the silken sensation of his locks as she carded her fingers through them, his individual scent, with its wont soothing quality of medicinal and herbal fragrances, and principally the deceptively mundane yet in truth precious for vulnerable and imperiled divine gifts which were the rhythmic beating of his heart and the meditative steadiness of his breath, naturally beatified, extoled and assuaged her. They were both mirthful and comforted in the paradise of their safe, peaceful bliss of home. It seemed almost as though they were the only two people left on earth, in this palatial manor devoid of most of its inhabitants, silent and still, their singular, select, faithful companions Pythagoras, the large pack of older dogs warming, stretching themselves lazily in front of the fire and the tweeting songbirds in their cages by the windows.

Reaching overhead to fetch it from guéridon beside to the sofa, she opened the tome of fairytales ceremonially, and though his eyelids were heavy, battling to stay open, and his eyes slumberous, his inquisitive, pensive gaze glide in restudy over every already well memorized miniscule detail of the beautifully elaborate illustrations at once, before at last letting himself fully submit to his body’s languor. Thus, as no particular tale had seemed to catch the boy’s fancy she searched out one of his favorites, thereupon begun to read aloud animatedly, taking care to let her voice be rich, to let it caress and carry, lending her euphony grand colorful play, effect and gravitas:

«Once upon a time there was a little girl who was orphaned of both father and mother. Without them she had not a soul in the world to care for her, and was thus so poor that she no longer had a room to live in, nor any bed to sleep in, and as she sat, despondent and lonely, weeping by their graves, it was indeed so that she had nothing else but the clothing on her back and a little loaf of bread in her hand which a charitable soul had given her.

The little girl was good and pious however. And as she was thus forsaken by the world and utterly alone, she went forth into the open countryside, accompanied only by her unshakable virtue and faith in a kind, loving God. Then she met a poor beggar-man who pleaded ‘Little girl, do give me something to eat, I am a starving man!’ And the little girl, pure of heart, handed him the whole of her bread and said ‘May God bless it for you’ and went onwards. »

_~*~_

**TO BE UPDATED**

_~*~_

 

  * Chapter title derived from “He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.” – Aeschylus



 

  * Anna is the multilingual (thus also Occitan and Catalan) version of Hebrew Channah (or Chanah, Hannah) meaning ‘grace, favor’ who in the Hebrew Bible’s First Book of Samuel is the mother of the prophet Samuel (Like Sarah and Rebecca before her, Channah, wife of Elkanah, was the primary and favorite but childless/barren wife. One day she went to the temple and prayed desperately for a son and in return vowed to give the child into God’s service as a Nazarite, which she did, giving him to the temple upon the child having been weaned. Her well known song of thanksgiving, ‘Song of Hannah’ (1 Samuel 2:1–10), establishes her as a prophetess in her own right and turns her into the prime model of how to pray in Judaism and Early Protestantism. It is read as haftarah during the first day of Rosh Hashanah and as Canticle of Anna as one of the seven canticles in the Roman Breviary, often used for lauds on Wednesdays), and in the New Testament as Saint Anne, the mother of the Virgin Mary (who in her turn echoes in her Magnificat Channah’s song of thanksgiving), who is the patron saint of mothers, pregnant women, unborn infants, pregnancy and labor, unmarried women/ maidens, girlhood, female education, grandparents, the childless, children, family, housewives, lost articles, horses and equestrians, also she is often invoked against sterility and in protection of young women; she is often depicted with attributes such as a door (For Joachim and Saint Anne’s Meeting at the Golden Gate of Jerusalem) or a book (especially educating the Virgin Mary). Plus the Talmud also mentions another woman with the name Anna (Hannah, Channah) as a Jewish martyr known as The Woman With Seven Sons. Amàlia is the Occitan and Catalan form of High German Amalia, a name popular with nobility, which is derived from Germanic Amal meaning ‘industriousness, labor, work, diligence, assiduous effort, activity, sedulity, zeal’ or from Amaliya, which is a Hebrew name meaning ‘work of God’.



 

  * In Catholicism’s Liturgy of Hours Sext is the noontime prayer circa 12 am.



 

  * Congee is a long simmered, rather thin, usually savory rice porridge or gruel, popular throughout many Asian countries including Burma, China, Thailand, India and Japan. It has countless variations and many similar dishes exist in Asia. Taken to Europe by merchants, as in Asia, for example in Portugal, where it is known as Canja, it is amazingly highly valued as a food for the ill, elderly, infants, invalids, those recovering from illness and as a general, easily digestible comfort food. If not plain, it’s often served with meats, eggs, vegetables or even seafood – poultry and eggs are amongst the most popular, widespread toppings. Sometimes milk, broths or tea are used in boiling/and or simmering the rice instead of water to thicken and/or flavor it. Banon (à la feuille) is a Provencal kind of chèvre which is a soft, creamy (if unripened) or soft-ripened goat’s milk cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, there are countless variations of banon and kinds of similar cheeses eaten both à pâte fraîche and soft-ripened. Mató is an unsalted fresh cheese emblematic of Catalonia and very popular in other parts of Occitania, made with either goat’s or cow’s milk, traditionally served with honey or sometimes jam, scented versions with lemon or orange flowers are also common, it bears some resemblance to the Italian ricotta and is somewhat similar to the Provencal Brousse.



 

  * None of the fruit mentioned are anachronistic but they would be expensive luxury items, at least the ones needing importation. Due to the weather conditions many southern fruits do grow naturally in Southern France and some tropical fruits have been introduced and are sparsely cultivated in a myriad of ways successfully thanks to the climate, but other tropical ones such as papaya and banana are imported. As such, being home of some of the most important hubs of trade of the country, from Africa, the entire Mediterranean, the Balkans, Middle East and East and South East Asia, and Southwestern ports adding the Caribbean, Oceania and the Americas (South and Central specifically) into the mix, southern fruit is found and traded quite extensively there. From what I could find papaya was known as far back as Cortés to the Portuguese and bananas go back even further, most likely introduced to Europeans via Muslim Iberia or maybe even earlier via trade.      



 

  * Mamà is the Occitan version of French Maman, the equivalent of Mom/Mommy. Balaustine refers to something of, or relating to the pomegranate; also the red rose-like flower of the pomegranate used in folk medicine, Latin in origin, the term is also used for pomegranate flower/blossom shaped ornaments and occasionally, like here, as a general color name referring to a red color resembling that of pomegranates. Pashmina is a type of cashmere. Russian (or Imperial, Siberian) sable is incredibly highly valued, previously rather rare/ difficult to obtain and amongst the most if not the most expensive fur, coveted and esteemed by nobility, royalty and the upperclass in many countries since the Early Middle Ages.



 

  * The prayer is called 'The Benedictio Ante Mensam' which is one of the traditional Catholic pre meal graces. Approx. English translation: “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen”. The further Latin is the midday addition called Ante prandium which translates to: “May the King of everlasting glory make us partakers of the heavenly table. Amen.” Macte is an archaic/literary expression of approval, encouragement, or good will, derived from Classical Latin and used since the Late 16th century, meaning ‘All praise to you!’, ‘Well done!’, ‘Bravo!’ or in some contexts also ‘Good luck!’. Comme il faut is French for ‘as it should be’ and means something ideal, exemplary and proper, in keeping with or conforming to accepted social standards and/or etiquette.



 

  * Pythagoras [the](https://www.dogbreedinfo.com/images11/afghanTeddyEd%20016.JPG) [Afghan Hound](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Afghan_Hound) [puppy](http://www.doglib.com/wp-content/uploads/af/afghan-afghan-hound-puppies-for-sale-breed.jpg).



 

  * The fairytale is ‘The Star Talers’ (Original German: Die Sternthaler, other title translations include ‘The Star Money’ or ‘Star Coins’) collected in Grimm’s Fairy Tales and firstly included in 1812 under a different title and then under its current one in the 1819 edition but the story itself has been around for centuries in differing variations. The Grimms’ rendition of the tale was partly influenced by Jean Paul’s novel ‘Die unsichtbare Loge’ (1793). Fair warning: I embellished the original a lot.




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